A Handful Still Survive
by et2brute
Summary: Eames did not get Arthur right the first time. Cobb is finally allowing himself to grieve for Mal, and life is terrible. Ariadne's the only one who ever freaking listens. Sex and some gross violence. Mainlining Arthur and Eames with a few bumps along the way.
1. I've seen the lights go out on Broadway

Eames is bent behind the minibar, beneath a night sky so pumped full of light pollution that he can only see a single star; and it's probably not a star at all, probably only a satellite, and Eames is absolutely not intoxicated enough if he can still acknowledge the possibility of a difference between the two.

Cobb is sitting nearby, wearing a dark navy suit with clean lines and a slightly rumpled collar, hand curled around a suspiciously opaque martini. He's staring up at the hard angles and weightless, frosted-glass panels of Arthur's house with narrow eyes, lips pursed with disapproval. Apparently elegance, understated but inescapable (the rare allowed color: muted, carefully chosen) isn't the former extractor's cup of tea. But then, it would make sense for Cobb to wistfully yearn for a house that screams 'home' – haphazard and comfortable, pieced together by necessity rather than design. Kid's toys on the floor. Clean enough, but always cluttered. Pictures stuck to the refrigerator with multi-colored alphabet magnets.

Personally, Eames appreciates these clean, modern lines, the openness of the interior; he might've taken it a bit further, thrown in a bright splash of seafoam or teal just to break up the (admittedly severe) black framework, but then again he doesn't get to live here. Have to live here. What the fuck ever.

Across the bartop, Cobb says, "It's so sterile. It's not what I would have expected for either of them." His fingertips are drumming on the glass bartop, skidding absently through puddles of moisture, and Eames wonders at this strange, anxious-looking incarnation; Cobb, above anyone Eames has ever met, has always had an excellent poker face. Even when he loses his shit, it's hard to tell what he's thinking half the time.

Probably because he doesn't know himself, but that's beside the point. Or maybe it isn't, but at any rate, Eames has found the scotch. Brilliant. He straightens, prize in hand.

He pours two shots and throws them back one after the other. Since he fancies himself a nice enough bloke, and Cobb has been watching the bottle with interest, he pours a third and slides it over. "On the house, cheers," he mutters.

Cobb smiles gratefully, but 'smile' is a bit of an exaggeration – it's more like a tight, upside-down grimace, something you force your face into when you're somewhat happy about a shot of scotch, but extraordinarily _un_happy with everything else in your life. Eames sighs through his nose, disguises it as colorless exhalation, and doesn't think about anything.

"If only you were an actual bartender," Cobb mutters, lip quirking in an alarming combination of humor and remorse. "I'd get a halfway decent martini while we were drowning our sorrows together." It's true: what he's drinking now, the color's all wrong, and the clarity, and also it smells like saltwater from where Eames is standing. Or dishwater.

Eames says, "Never touch the stuff, mate, bad for your vitals, innit," and throws back another shot. It burns down his throat, fizzles hotly at his core. He's already starting to feel better.

After a moment, like a dog with inexplicably fascinating bone, Cobb continues, "It's just that... this _house_. It's really not... just not _Ariadne_."

The thing about Cobb, and being around Cobb, is that there's so much excess thought just snarled up in his mind, seeping from his pores and occasionally his mouth, that it's almost like listening to a song caught in someone else's head: you have the shape of the music, but not the melody; you can't hear the words; the rhythm is beyond your comprehension or ability. But just the same, it stays with you.

In this instance, while Cobb is clearly thinking about Ariadne's taste in architecture, Eames himself is thinking about Arthur. Because on one hand, the fact of the matter is not at all apparent – but on the other, it's so blatantly obvious that Eames can't believe he's the only one to have figured it out.

Arthur, unlike Ariadne, is not utilitarian. He has a thing – fetish? – for ornate beauty. Lavish, luxurious, devil's-in-the-details beauty. It's the difference between a bed & breakfast and that ridiculously posh hotel he dreamed up for the Inception job. It's the difference between a charcoal Armani suit and something off the rack at Debenham's. It's the difference between a Corvette and a goddamn Cadillac, and Eames swallows another fucking shot because it's probably the difference between Arthur and himself.

In a part of himself that is still receptive to these things, there is some growing concern. This is not because the lights and the people and the whole bloody night itself all have this lovely, slow-spinning hazy quality to them – which is pretty much what Eames has been aiming for, all the soft edges rubbed away – but because he seems fixated on Arthur's clothing, both in simile and at present. Because he's watching Arthur approach like a smudged, cool spectre, a contrast in monochrome, back-lit, eyes aglow with ambient light.

"Arthur," Cobb says, smiling that truly awful, fucked-up, horrifying smile of his again.

"Dom," Arthur says, with dimples. His slicked-back hair is mostly in place, but his tie has come loose in a very slight way – not so's you'd notice, unless you're Eames and the devils _are_ your details. Wait, no, fuck – it's entirely possible that Eames, exactly where he should like to be, aught to stop at pleasantly inebriated; he doesn't really need to tube it to the land of arse-over-tit pissed. It's bad form to mix your idioms, even to yourself. Eames cannot abide bad form, he's almost sure.

Anyway, the _point_ is that Arthur has been drinking a bit, and also that he appears to be happy, and also that he's finally got around to calling Cobb "Dom" again.

"Congratulations," Cobb is saying, shaking his hand and grasping his forearm, and Arthur looks so openly pleased and comfortable and _young_ that Eames glances away. It's stupid, how a person can be so bright they hurt your eyes. Incredibly, uselessly stupid, and it doesn't fit into Eames' worldview, and Arthur doesn't fit into Eames' world at all, or – more specifically – he chooses not to. Which is kind of worse.

Really very much worse.

"Yeah, we're – yeah," Arthur says, voice warring between excitement and composure. Like everything's going right, the counterpoint to Cobb's horrible vacuum of _what do I do now_, since he's finally got around to grieving properly, since Mal is gone in a way that she wasn't before. When she was only a dose of Somnacin away. Like so many other things about the Cobbs, folding and settling and glittering together like thin chains, it just links back to what is dead.

Eames is a bit disgusted with himself, that he never noticed the Mal problem, but then – he hadn't really been around much, after. But Arthur had, and _he_ hadn't noticed since he's an emotionally oblivious shit, and maybe Ariadne really will be good for Arthur, since at least she seems to know what the fuck is up.

A fresh perspective probably helped, in hindsight. Eames wonders idly if they could've avoided the whole bleeding mess by getting Cobb a psychiatrist.

"I never thought the day would come," Arthur is saying when his eyes sort-of-but-not-really-except-yeah-really slide over to Eames, who takes this as his cue to offer his hand.

Arthur's palm is warm in his, over the translucent bartop, and Eames watches his face without meeting his eyes and says, "Best of luck, mate." He really tries to pull something else up, because even teasing Arthur implies that he gives a shit, but he _can't_. He has nothing to say, and Arthur's hand freezes suddenly and withdraws, and Cobb is blissfully unaware of any apparent awkwardness (not that Eames feels awkward, or Arthur, or the whole bloody world, fuck it all), and also a great help. Since he tries to stand up and stumbles a bit. Since he has really been drinking quite a lot, Eames notices blearily.

Instead of focusing on drowning his own troubles, perhaps Eames should've been concerned about the mounting evidence that Cobb has become an alcoholic.

Cobb, who has been unenthusiastically sipping his really disgusting-looking martini, drinks it down for no reason Eames can currently fathom. Honestly, he'd thought the man was just being polite by hanging onto it. He doesn't even grimace, which should probably raise a red flag.

If Ariadne made it, Cobb has Eames' condolences. That was one mistake the forger will never, ever make again.

His suspicions are confirmed when Cobb chases the martini with the shot of scotch, blinks several times, and says loudly, "Right, give me a minute." He claps Arthur on the shoulder in a way that is significantly less brotherly than it is an attempt to get up without falling over.

But here is what Eames sees: Arthur's head turned, gleaming pale profile, looking searchingly at Cobb's face, everything open about his expression. Not that Arthur is overly emotional or expressive, but it's all there: concern. Admiration. Respect. Love. Trust. All of it, everything, and Eames is about to piss off and go, whatever, pick up a hooker or something.

"I'm fine," Cobb is saying to whatever Arthur's asked, and then he's gone and Arthur takes a seat beside Eames and Eames has missed his window of opportunity. The window was actually probably: leaving as soon as he got here; having something else to do later, a job, whatever, an excuse to go home early; maybe just being a clever bloke about it and not coming at all.

But goddamn is Arthur thorough, and it's not as though he'd be able to come up with some last-minute story the point man would buy.

"Is he really alright?" Arthur asks Eames. There's a drink his hand, mostly full, the amber liquid casting gilt shadows on his skin.

"Ask Ariadne." Eames replies, tracing his shot glass idly.

Arthur looks at him sharply, and Eames quirks up his lip. "She still can't make a decent dirty gin martini."

A look of panic crosses Athur's face, but he makes no move to get up. "Ariadne's martinis are – ugh. Why would Dom even drink it."

"I think he's been drinking quite a lot lately," Eames hedges, for no reason he can imagine. He realizes that Arthur has been staring at his fingers tracing the glass, quick and slow, sporadic, rhythmic.

Arthur glances up, into his eyes, and Eames thinks, oh, hell. Thinks, how did it ever get to this point.

Arthur's brows knit together and he purses his lips. "Do you think it's a problem? Is he – " Arthur pauses, lost for words, and finally manages, "Is it Mal?"

Eames shakes his head, because Mal is not the black, volatile shadow that covered Cobb like a cloak. Her gray traces will always remain, pale scars where once there were gauges, on his psyche; but the only things he must escape from now are his fancies. "No, Arthur. I believe the man is simply grieving."

Arthur nods, pensive, and then looks Eames full in the face. Eames can't look away without running away.

Arthur reaches out his hand, like he's going to touch Eames' sleeve or elbow or whatever, and opens his mouth, and Eames is sure the other man is going to _say _something. He's fucking _sure of it_, maybe something important or maybe some useless remark on the weather, who even knows, but – he never does. Arthur doesn't say shit.

Across the lawn, something of a commotion distracts them both: it's Cobb, drunk and also throwing up, and suddenly Nash is there, sliding in around the edges like grease, and Ariadne is standing pretty close to Cobb (but out of the line of fire) and looks confused, and maybe combative, and maybe also protective. It curls warmly in Eames' chest, a fondness, and he thinks: sod it all, down to the last drop. Maybe they'll be good together. Because if it hadn't been Arthur it maybe, conceivably, could have possibly been Ariadne. And maybe that means, since Eames apparently has a type, that his types, respectively, could be good together. Puzzlework by proxy. Clapping your hands together. Introducing your two best friends and they fall in love and you are still, inexplicably, alone. Since you've lost them both.

Or Eames could just throw in the towel, admit to himself that he has no idea about anything, is inebriated past the point of sense, and could really do without hearing Cobb heave wetly across the lawn.

He turns to Arthur, whose eyes are locked on Ariadne, and who is already moving quickly away from Eames. Except that Eames feels as though Arthur has been moving away from him for some time now. Feels like maybe this is just the first he's actually watched it happen.

* * *

"Who invited _Nash_?" Arthur is asking sharply, and Eames tightens his fingers around the half-empty bottle of scotch that has decided to come along of its own accord.

Arthur, irritated and terrifically visible about it, is watching Ariadne intently. She's got her small hand moving in soothing circles between Cobb's shoulder blades as the man dry-heaves.

Nash is wrinkling his nose with disgust. Nash, who – after a year and a half of evading Cobal – is looking pretty rough himself. Even a shower and a halfway-decent suit can't help the fresh scars on his face, or the nervous way he scans and re-scans the small crowd of friends (Ariadne's) and close professional associates (Arthur's) that have gathered to hear the couple's announcement.

"He wasn't," Eames says at length, taking base pride in the fact that he's almost sure he isn't slurring.

Ariadne raises her eyebrows, glancing between Eames and Nash and Cobb and, finally, shooting Arthur a significant look. She wouldn't've have known Nash on sight, of course. But she'd've heard the stories.

"Arthur," Nash is saying, opening his hands in a supplicating gesture. "Congratulations are in order?"

"Why are you here," Arthur asks flatly, and while the way he stands is not noticeably defensive, Eames knows three separate ways Arthur can shift his body to pull out his small, casual-use revolver. The one he wears to fancy dinner parties at his home. Because that's just the kind of nutter Arthur is.

"Can't an old friend stop by for the well-wishing?"

Cobb, who has since straightened and is wiping his mouth on some napkins Ariadne has prudently pressed into his hands, frowns and says hotly, "Old friends don't sell you out to your very wealthy, _very powerful_ marks."

"They also don't fuck up small details like goddamn _carpeting_, and lose you the whole job – or get fresh and smarmy with a projection that _axes them in the back_." Arthur adds in acid tones, tension in every line of his body. He relaxes only marginally when Eames moves up beside him. Eames does not know why either of them do either thing.

Cobb looks around at Arthur's voice, but when he sees Eames, some concern flashes over his features; and Eames wonders when _he_ became the volatile one.

Then he remembers that time in Tijuana, after that really brutal cartel job, and tequila because Eames and Arthur'd had a pretty bad row. Arthur not coming back after storming out angry. Tracking him down with Cobb, terrified, the ugliest things imaginable sliding through his mind like a worst-of horror show.

Remembers anger so cold it started to burn, and remembers Cobb, after: bewildered and just a bit approving, because it was _Arthur_, and maybe it was morally okay that their culprit was basically mostly a vegetable. After Eames was through with him.

So perhaps there is slight cause for concern. But finding Arthur in a tub of ice, unconscious, with a scalpel against his flesh? Justifiable. Eames remembers the exact shape and texture of that tiny, arrested incision. A scar that meant Arthur was whole and accounted for, with nothing else to show for his fit of retardation but a mild concussion.

"Good to see you, Nash," Eames says, amicably enough, and moves forward into the man's space, bulky and close and aggressive. He makes a show of setting down the bottle of scotch to free up his hands, and Ariadne, nearby, glances between them. She has heat in her eyes, and her pale throat flashes as she sips her glass of ruby Port.

"Nice to see life's been treating you fair." Eames is so much less sober than he sounds, but he pitches his voice and fills it with thinly veiled threats and, hell, if he smells like a distillery at least he comes off as the fucking competent arse that he is.

Nash takes a step back, thoroughly intimidated. Then there's a sudden warmth at Eames' back, and – it's Arthur. With a hand on Eames' shoulder. Close and angry, and for the first time in two years he feels like –

Ariadne says, "Eames –"

"You weren't there," Nash bitches petulantly. "I don't see how it's any of your business – "

"Seriously, could so – " Ari tries again.

"I bloody well _wasn't_ there," Eames explodes, "And it _is_ my business when your _lunacy_ almost gets my team killed!"

Cobb is saying, "Shit," and Arthur goes completely still at his side, doesn't even breathe, and Eames wonders what the fuck everyone's problem is.

Any minute and there won't be anyplace left for Nash to run; the gate is just behind him, closed, and there's this feral thrill pooling in his gut, a vicious kind of intent, and Eames advances, closes in.

"Just because you refuse to work with any sort of _talent _– " Nash hisses, close and so afraid Eames can _smell_ it, but – suddenly Cobb has his hand on Eames' elbow, and he twists on reflex, pinned between him and Arthur, because he needs to _throw this goddamn punch_ –

...but then Ariadne tosses her drink violently at Nash's face. She's got between Eames and Nash somehow, and she's furious, vibrating with anger, _pulsing_ with it, holding her wineglass vertical at her side like a cudgel. The bit of Port left in it pools and drips over the rim like sweet, crystalline blood.

She's a hair over five feet tall, fuming, surrounded on three sides by men who make her look like a child by comparison, and Eames thinks he maybe loves her, but it could never work out since she's _bloody fucking terrifying_.

"Mister Nash," she says, icily polite, "I would appreciate it if you could tell my fiancee why you've crashed our engagement party." Nash's face is streaked with wine, and it's splattered over the white collar of his shirt and soaking into his charcoal suit. "And then I'd very much like for you to leave."

Eames, inexplicably, starts laughing. It just bubbles up his throat from his belly, bursts out of him, and Cobb lets him go but Eames steps a bit closer to him, leaning in for support, howling. Cobb snorts, mouth twisting, and rests his hand solidly on Eames' back.

Nash grits his teeth and stares Ariadne down; she doesn't give an inch, looking up at him like she's looking down at dirt, and eventually Nash is just plain uncomfortable. Finally, he turns to Arthur.

"There's this job," he says, and Arthur – Arthur whose hand has been tight on Eames' shoulder, who has been pressed into Eames' side, who has stayed close, bemused, through Eames' sudden fit of humor – Arthur hauls off and punches Nash in the face.

* * *

Ariadne hands Nash the icepack while he and Arthur go over the specs. Eames is focusing on the way the overhead lamp casts gilt shadows over Arthur's face and hands, the way his suit drinks in the light. The house seems so big and quiet, aside from the intermittent sounds of Cobb blowing chunks in the bathroom. The guests are mostly gone, and they don't even have all the lights on, since a few – including Yusuf and one of Ariadne's friends from university – are passed out in the living room.

Eames sighs, doing his level best to concentrate on staying afloat in the slow-spinning room. He keeps his legs out straight as he leans against the table, nursing his glass of water and glaring daggers at Nash, who is speaking, and god – Eames hates every fucking word the man says.

"I've been doing solo jobs," he's muttering, and Eames is violently happy about the way his fat lip malforms each words. "Since there aren't too many people who will work with me."

"Curious. Why ever would that be, I wonder," Eames snipes, and Arthur glances at him speculatively; their eyes meet, a brief, settled connection, and Eames takes in the dark hair, the coffee-colored eyes.

Right now, Arthur's face could be speaking volumes – if only Eames knew the goddamn language. He can emulate it, right down to the slight part of Arthur's lips, the faint crease in his brow, the deep questions in his eyes. But that's piss-all if he can't _understand_.

Arthur pulls his attention back to Nash, but the warmth that pools in the Eames' gut remains.

Or that could still be the alcohol.

"Anyway," Nash says plaintively, "It's too big for me. This guy – drives a hard bargain. Works for a local mob. 'S got some serious pull." He pauses for a moment, shifting the icepack. Ariadne is watching him like a lion watches a sick wildebeest – you don't really want to eat it, but feel as though you ought to put it out of its misery for the great good of all involved. "Wants info on some big-time CEO that was declared dead seven years ago, but suddenly showed up to reclaim his father's multi-billion dollar business. The guy – my client – wants to know why, and where the guy's been. I guess the board of directors wanted to go public with the company, but... that didn't really happen."

"Is your client on the board of directors?" Ariadne asks, and Arthur glances at her sharply. Eames only knows this because he was watching Arthur, and uncomfortably switches his gaze to the architect herself, since it really wouldn't do to be found out now.

"I'm not at liberty to say," Nash says in a prim way that means he has no idea. He's far too much of a braggart to do otherwise.

"What about – "

"Ariadne," Arthur says curtly, and she glances up at him. "Could you – go check on Cobb? I think he's passed out in the bathroom."

"Arthur," she says sweetly, "Why don't _you_ go check on Cobb?"

The point-man's jaw tightens, and Eames blinks rapidly and fixes his eyes on Nash – who is staring, startled, right back at him. Eames resents this sudden moment of empathy, and remedies it by glowering darkly. Nash swallows, loudly and with much discomfort.

"Because we are not taking this job," Arthur begins, in a way that Eames thinks is very diplomatic, "And also because if I leave, Eames will kill Nash."

"You think I'm somehow less capable than you are? I stopped him killing Nash the first time." She points out, without a trace of actual accusation coloring her words. Eames looks at his glossy black shoes and wonders blearily if they always fight like this – no one getting overtly angry. While it's quite possible that Eames, himself, might shut down over the little things until something catastrophic sets him off – in which case he wields sarcasm and sharp reason like particularly sadistic knives – he's fairly certain that Arthur would rather get angry and get over it. The man's honestly impossible to live with otherwise.

Eames exhales loudly through his nose. Not that he lives with Arthur. Not anymore.

"I'm not going to kill Nash," Eames says, and really, truly hopes his voice isn't actually as slurred as he thinks it is. "So it's okay for you to check on Cobb. You know how he likes to be nurtured. Arthur's awful at that sort of thing."

Ariadne, lovely and lowering her hackles, cracks a grin. Eames smiles back.

Even after Ariadne says, "You're absolutely right, Eames," and Eames replies with a healthy, "I know," Arthur watches sourly as his wife-to-be leaves the room.

"So what'll it be? I can have you guys in the States by – "

Arthur punches him again, sends the icepack flying. It lands wetly on the floor, seeps, melts a slow death in its own juices. "I don't work with you. Cobb is retired – "

"I can see that," Nash mumbles nastily.

" – and even if he wasn't, he wouldn't work with you either." Arthur is not cold fury; he is hot, raging, and very visibly restraining himself. It's marvelous, witnessing him on the edge of control.

"It's true," Eames contributes. He moves with careful purpose to Arthur's side and tries to walk in a straight line. "You're basically scum."

Nash spits out a piece of tooth, and even Eames winces.

"Who've you got that's better?" Nash asks, and it's exactly the wrong question since he adds, "I heard you had some cheap sl – "

Eames thinks, Wow, it's not clever at all to tell such lies, I should have considered my words more thoroughly before I spoke.

Since he _is_ going to kill Nash. And then – is breaking a promise a lie? Since the future is mutable, forever changing. Impossible, really, to get away with making any sort of plan. He decides it isn't his fault, that it's just the way things go.

He only gets in two hits – two good, solid hits that leave his knuckles bloody and Nash's face red and blue and blackening by the moment – before Arthur hooks an arm around his ribs and jerks him bodily back. Eames pants for a moment, breathing hard against the solid mass behind him, until Arthur clears his throat and Eames steps prudently away. He feels flushed in his face and neck, feels it spread through his chest. He wonders how awful he looks, drunk and mean and telling lies with lies, instead of lies with truths as is his preference. Wonders if Arthur's body remembers his, misses or regrets this space of a heartbeat where they could have reminded each other. What it feels like.

The thing about dream forgery is you never have to play yourself.

"So I'm going to take your files for reference," Arthur says, not a hint of longing or desire in his voice, and hauls Nash bodily out of his chair by his collar. He barely glances at Eames. "And you're never going to set foot in this city again."

"Or else what," Nash spits, because he's a goddamn cunt. It sounds like he's talking around a mouthful of peanut butter.

Eames smiles, and even if Nash does fixate a bit on his mouth, there is only fear in his eyes when Eames tells him, in medical detail, precisely what will happen.

Arthur calls him a cab, and Eames shoves him roughly into the backseat while the point-man looks on.

"The city limits," Arthur says, and the cabbie nods without question. They've used him before, Eames is not ashamed to say. They tip him extra to cover his reupholstery costs. And probably his rent for the month.

* * *

"Joseph Couric," Arthur says, sliding the photocopies across the bar. Eames looks them over without much success. The words shudder and swim over the cheap computer paper; the drawn scarred face pales and darkens. The forger takes a page from Cobb's book, squinting meaningfully and trying to pretend he understands.

"I guess he's some kind of – Mr. Eames, are you alright?"

Mr. Eames is definitely not all right. Mr. Eames would actually like to have a bit of a lie-down.

"I think I'll turn-in for the night," he says, smiling apologetically.

Arthur hesitates, a hand on the table, fingertips tracing the edge of the paper where it rests against the wood grain. Inexplicably, Eames remembers those fingers on his shoulder, sinking in, sliding down over his back as Arthur shifted and stood, for a bare few seconds, like a lover; and Eames almost wants to believe that he wasn't reading into things, that Arthur – that maybe Arthur never stops loving anyone, no matter what, that he can't help it. But the moment was brief, abrupt, over in moments. And Arthur isn't touching him at all now, just looking at him like – like he needs something, but doesn't know what, or how to ask.

Eames takes a moment to hate his life bitterly, but then he strains to listen because Arthur is talking again.

"Did you," he starts, and then when Eames glances up at him, something passes over his eyes and he begins again: " – do you know where the spare room is?"

"Yes, Arthur," he says. "Goodnight, then."

He doesn't pause for affirmation, he doesn't hang around for – for something like, "Wait, Eames," – but for once Arthur surprises him, and he gets it anyway.

"You're wearing Dior," Arthur mumbles, and Eames turns around.

"Yes," Eames says flatly. "You're wearing Armani."

Arthur looks uncertain, and young, and then like – like he gives up and he's determined, simultaneously, and Eames can't even begin to fathom it. He closes distance in three strides, skims his fingers over the folded breast of Eames' suit – it isn't some vintage tweed number at all, but an actual, honest-to-god label, carefully tailored and pressed, and Eames hates it with tooth-deep loathing. But he wore it. Because, you know. This thing about Arthur. Ornate beauty. All that bollocks.

"I'm just surprised, is all," Arthur says quietly. They are of a height, so when Arthur looks up from the cool black fabric, when he meets Eames' eyes, they snap together and hold and there's no distance between them.

"You've let your hair go a bit," He adds, voice husky and almost a whisper, and – well, okay. Eames' hair isn't so strictly parted, and has actually grown just a bit shaggy. He's had things going on.

"I've had things going on," he says, vague and false, turning his head to tear away from those gorgeous, bloody probing eyes. "More important things than getting to a barber."

"Eames, do you," Arthur starts, and no. This can't happen right now, Eames really can't deal with this. Rejection was awful enough the first time, and just because his terrible habit is to always bet on the same horse, it doesn't mean he's blind to the fact that – well, it's never won before. He just, he feels bad for the thing. And statistically, a horse is more likely to win if it's never won, right?

But goddamn if Arthur isn't a horse, and he's fucking marrying Ariadne in the spring, and Eames has been drinking and taking more jobs further away just to – not be around to pay mind to it.

He reaches out and shuffles the stack of papers on Joseph Couric and this mysterious prodigal billionaire, and turns his back on Arthur. Fans listlessly through the pages without looking at anything – until he does. And something unsavory and very much not clever congeals like cold intent into Eames' mind.

"Arthur," Eames says carefully, "Whatever you're about to say, I think – well, we can both agree that I don't really need to hear it."

There's a sharp exhalation behind him, and when he turns and looks at Arthur, the point-man looks stricken and then furious and then – lost. It's baffling.

"Arthur – " Eames says, softer than he means, because this isn't – he doesn't, what –

"Down the hall on your right," Arthur all but snarls, motioning broadly. "Thanks for coming to the party." Like they'd had a lovely evening of dinner and vapid conversation rather than the wonderful Cobb Team Family Bonding Experience of beating the shit out of Nash.

"Right," Eames says. He leaves Arthur standing there, doesn't get so much as a polite 'Goodnight,' back, and tries to sort out how everything got so stupidly complicated. The Gordian Knot of stupidly complicated. If ten years ago someone had said to Eames, "Yeah, dreamshare is great, only you'll be well into your thirties and still pining after some tosser what broke your heart," he would've become a banker.

* * *

"You know what Mal would've said?"

Eames pauses, just past the bathroom, and he isn't uncomfortable with eavesdropping; just with the subject. It's Cobb's voice, and the door is shut, and Eames fervently hopes the man is not alone in there.

"'This is an executive board room when it should be a lover's suite.'"

There is quiet span of seconds, and then a breath: soft, feminine. Ariadne. Even though she doesn't say anything, Eames recognizes her. She's the only person who ever fucking listens to anyone.

"She'd say it was beautiful, but so very mechanical. That it could never be a home." There are harsh things in his voice, and he's slurring a bit, and his words are thick and crammed together.

"Cobb," Ariadne says, voice quiet but direct; gentle, but giving no ground. "Is this also how you feel?"

"You know," he says roughly, "I can't – I've forgotten her, a little. In small ways. Like the _foundation_ of my memory of her, here and there, and eventually I feel that it – it'll all just crumble away. Things like her voice, her accent – her exact cadence and pitch."

There are some wet sounds that are indicative of losing one's lunch, and Ariadne's quiet, comforting 'shh's, and then Cobb says something – for the love of god why, Eames will never know – that the forger can't really understand around all the inconvenient retching.

And then he hears Ariadne reply, "Because I thought – you wouldn't want to. Even, you know. After."

Eames really only meant to check on Cobb and maybe tell some people _goodnight_, because he is not an impolite bastard named _Arthur._ But these things happen, and too much information is better than too little, and Eames can't unknow the tiny idea – realization? – gaining ground in his mind. He is very unhappy with it, but that doesn't mean he'll look away. What good comes of looking away from an avalanche, ignoring it when you ought to be running damage control?

"I didn't," Cobb is saying stiffly, his voice muffled. And then again, softer, but more deliberate: "I didn't."

"It's fine," she says, and there's a sound like Cobb is resting his head against the toilet bowl. Eames recognizes it without any trouble – he's been there enough himself. "I wouldn't've – you know, either. I don't really like to hang out in someone else's shadow."

Eames decides he's heard enough that he can still pretend he didn't, and makes like he's walking up to the door. He raps on it gently. "How are things?"

"Pitiful," Ariadne says, just as Cobb mutters, "Really disgusting."

Eames opens the door.

Ariadne is still wearing her dress – the pretty rust-colored one, satiny and just a bit ruffly – but Cobb has his suit jacket folded over the towel rack, and his button-up shirt hangs, discarded, from the door handle. Eames gives Cobb's bare chest a once-over; not bad, but he can't say he appreciates all that nudity next to his Arthur's fiancee.

Wait, hell. Maybe he does appreciate it. Eames gives up, and takes the train back from affront to misery, since his life is terrible either way.

"Finally throwing up all that salt, eh?" Eames asks, leaning against the doorframe out of necessity.

"What?" Ariadne asks, and glances at Cobb who, for some really puzzling reason, is faintly flushed. Well, that is to say that his face, pink from vomiting, has darkened by shades.

"My dearest Ariadne," Eames says, smiling at her in a way he hopes is Charming Friend and not at all Creepy Older Uncle. Because, really. "That was absolutely the worst excuse for a dirty gin martini I've ever had. Was there anything in there but salt and gin?"

"The recipe was three to one to one," she says, puzzled, and Eames shakes his head indulgently.

"Six to one and a splash," he says, wincing. "The splash is olive juice, not vermouth. And – forgive me – the three is definitely _not_ olive juice, even if you do use a fucked-up ratio." He grimaces. "You use it to flavor. You drink it straight, you get sick." Cobb is wiping his mouth with a paper towel while Ariadne smooths her hands over her dress, sheepish.

"Six parts gin, one part vermouth, and a dash of olive juice if you like it dirty. I don't need a whole sixth," Ariadne acquiesces.

"Just so." In all actuality, Eames is fairly certain that Cobb drank more than he did, and maybe – perhaps for similar reasons. He says, "Anyway. Goodnight Ariadne, Cobb. A kind and loving featherbed calls to me."

"Goodnight, Eames," Ariadne smiles, and she looks tired, too. Her eyes – also brown, but sweet – have a bleary smudged look to them. She's lovely and sleepy and her cheeks are just a bit pink.

"'Night, Eames," Cobb rumbles, voice scratchy. He manages a rueful grin.

He takes a mental snapshot of the two of them there, together, on the floor. Keeps it in his memory. Tries to think of anything in the world that could be done to fix this, of what could possibly be broken about tenderness and affection and understanding to begin with. Thinks of the lies he tells himself, to fool himself, to make the pieces fit.

When Eames gets to his room, he shuts the door and peels off his clothes and burrows down into the covers. The sheets are cold, but eventually warm to his body, and he falls asleep fighting desperately to keep his mind blank.

The next morning, after carefully reading through the documents he'd pilfered last night, while Arthur was being bitchy and incomprehensible and had his back turned, he calls Nash on his way home. He thinks he might need a week or two away, a change of scenery. He likes Paris. He liked Mombasa. He figures he'll like New Jersey just as well, for a time.

Eames is only somewhat surprised when Nash doesn't hang up on him immediately. Despite the rough-up they gave him, it's not like anyone else will work with the bastard. They have a short conversation where Eames listens very, very carefully to an unclear tumble of misshapen words.

He leaves for the airport later that afternoon.


	2. Before the mafia took over Mexico

So the first time Eames meets Arthur, they aren't on a job. Cobb is still on the right side of the law, Mal is alive and whole, and Nash doesn't have a drug problem – probably. They actually don't know him, so his theoretical drug problem is of no consequence.

And Eames – Eames is working for the SIS, a sort of you-scratch-our-back-we'll-clear-up-some-charges arrangement. This does not actually work out too well for him in the end, but that's another story for another day.

So, before dreamsharing became common study in scientific and technological circles, but after Eames' government had started using it for international espionage: Arthur is sent to London as the US's contribution to a sort-of joint business venture between England and America and France.

Arthur, impossibly young and extraordinarily organized, specializing in military intelligence and with a veritable pedigree of references; Arthur, who shakes Eames' hand and smiles in such an openly genuine way that it does, in fact, distract the forger (and, at the time, thief; counterfeiter; con artist; card sharp) from the very elegant and very beautiful and very French Mallorie Pennyworth. But after that, Eames can't look away.

He meets Dom Cobb, who is apparently a package deal with Arthur, and who has endless theories about information storage in the brain; how people hide it and hoard it; and he talks at length about lock boxes and vaults and bedside tables. He's the first generation architect, though the term won't be formally used for some time. He knows everything, before any of them know anything.

They find out during the course of the operation that it's entirely fabricated – a training exercise devised by their three governments to learn how dream espionage might be put into practice. They were given the name of the mark, and loose instructions that basically boiled down to, "Tell us what you find." Arthur absolutely hated it, since apparently he has a love affair with information. Which includes, but is not limited to: what their target/goal actually is; where the mark was born and raised, and who his high school sweetheart was, and why they aren't together anymore; his shoe size; his training, if any, and whether he excelled at sports; where he went to school, and his major, his minor, his considered major before he made his final decision, and his extracurricular activities; what he reads in his spare time if he reads at all.

Long story short, Arthur learns that their mark is actually from an auxiliary branch of M15. Which makes this both obvious and suspicious, but they were all too new to draw conclusions based on that.

Mal seduces information out of the man like nobody's business, and Eames is pretty sure that Cobb's jealousy is unwarranted – as though he thinks being strapped to a chair with a Frenchwoman coldcocking you and grinding down on your balls with her stiletto is something to aspire to. But Cobb keeps twitching and sweating and flushing, and this should probably have communicated something vital to everyone in the group. It doesn't.

Clearly Mal is never one to mess about, and it certainly helps that Arthur's research revealed the man as a fetishist.

Eames just kills a whole hell of a lot of projections, dreaming up sub-machine guns and rocket launchers and AK47s, revelling in his awesome, godlike supremacy; the infinite versatility; the sheer rush of the anything-you-want powerhouse that is lucid dreaming. It's later that he learns it's a gift, what he can do. It's later still that he figures out how to control his form the same way, shift into being, create from whole cloth any new persona as easily as pulling on a pair of gloves.

During, Arthur's firing his Beretta with sniper accuracy, and he doesn't flinch or freeze up once – not when a projection hurls an axe at his head (he steps precisely to the side), or when a screaming dominatrix dressed in Elizabethan finery comes within an inch of his levelled gun. Arthur fires once, twice, three times, six times – and each one manifests into a tiny, perfect hole, dead-center, and Arthur is eventually surrounded by tidy, unmessy corpses.

The only time Arthur actively panics is when he runs out of bullets.

Eames is there, laying waste, shoving Arthur behind him; he keeps jerking back against Arthur's chest with the kick (a different kind than what comes later) of his weapon, but Arthur stays close and has his hands on Eames' shoulder blades, and Eames is shouting at him over the roar.

"_Bullets_, Arthur? You're dreaming! Dream up some more!"

But he can't. In fact, after a good twenty minutes, the best Arthur can do is take one of Eames' own monsters, wield it messily and with great distaste.

In the end, Cobb stays alive long enough for Mal to get the info before the dream collapses, Eames gets his head bashed in gracelessly, and Arthur is strangled by tinkling chains. Someday it will be impossible to believe there was a time when they were all so new to this.

When Cobb wakes up, he dry-heaves phantom blood from the knife he took to the throat while Mal touches his face and neck with graceful dancer's hands.

After, when they're debriefed, they're told that this was a process of exploration, to determine the boundaries of dreamsharing potential. This is the first time an extraction has been done in any official capacity.

Except that this is patently untrue, but neither party betrays a thing.

After, they're under supervision for two weeks with routine physicals, cataloguing any and all reactions to what will eventually become a Somnacin prototype. As they're shirtless for most of this, Eames studies the arch of Arthur's naked back, shamelessly admiring the view, and endeavors to learn every faint spattering of freckles, each flat, tiny mole.

* * *

"So you've been working with Cobb and Pennyworth for some time, then?" Eames is drinking his whiskey neat, while beside him Arthur is stirring his dirty gin martini with absent fingers.

"About a year and a half," he offers, tilting his head to consider, and the dingy pub where Eames has brought them has the quality of a grimy window: you put a light behind it, a flickering candle, and it could have all the delicate traceries of frost, all the elegance of fogged glass.

"It was Dom's first time dying in a dream," Arthur murmurs, his American accent sharp over his soft voice.

"But not yours?"

"No. Or Mal's." Arthur sips his drink, and his throat flashes; his hair: dark against the flesh of his neck, curling low behind his ear, hidden like a secret.

"He seems like a good person," Eames manages, because he's honestly at a loss for words. He isn't used to feeling like – this. But there's a kind of quiet around Arthur, a sort of intrinsic exclusion, like he has a world put together in his head, and it works for him, but if anyone else gets involved...

"He is," Arthur says, and smiles so brilliantly, looking into his glass and trying to hide it, that it catches Eames completely off guard. It's the very first time Eames wonders about – that.

Arthur talks about Cobb for the rest of the night, and a bit about Mal, and more about Mal's father. Eames learns from fleeting details that Arthur is in the US Army; that Arthur has specific abilities and training, and that Arthur was introduced to Mal's father to learn the science of dreamsharing. Mal came into the picture then, and after, when they needed someone who'd been studying dream theory, they appropriated Dom Cobb at Arthur's suggestion. So Arthur's been actively working with the PASIV for a year and some change, which is about as long as Eames has been involved.

They're pretty drunk at the end of the night, and fumble their way back to base. Arthur'd sat perfectly straight all night, even as his collar had come loose, even as he'd unbuttoned cuffs and rolled up sleeves. Now, he leans into Eames, palm warm on the thief's shoulder, head bent close as he laughs and laughs at every absurd thing Eames says.

At one point, Eames forgets himself and settles his hand at the small of Arthur's back, thrills at the feel of material sliding over skin. The promise of lean muscle on either side of that bony spine, above the expanse of dips and flats that form the back of Arthur's hips. But the younger man stills, meets his eyes with guarded intensity, too close, and so Eames finds an excuse to put some distance between them.

In this instance, it's stopping abruptly to light a cigarette.

Arthur watches him all the while, eyes narrowed and mouth in a thin line, up until the cherry is bright and smoldering. Then he reaches forward, snatches it from Eames' lips, and drops it on the ground.

"Really?" He asks frankly, eyebrows knit. "Are you stupid? That's shit for your cardio."

Eames looks at him blankly for a long moment, then grimaces. "I'm not in the service, Arthur."

There's a long silence, but neither of them start walking again.

"Then... how did you get involved with this?" His bald curiosity clarifies (somewhat) the otherwise heavy slur that coats his tongue like honey. Or come.

Jesus christ.

Eames willfully distracts himself by telling Arthur stories – about owing favors to some of the higher-ups (a blatant lie); his military record, before honorable discharge (a half-truth); and his unique skillset that M16 may or may not have found beneficial to the study (the only honest thing he has said all night).

Arthur takes everything he says at face value, and if Eames ignores the way the man touches his elbow from time to time, or fixes those liquid brown eyes on his mouth or arms or waist – really, Eames knows when he's being sized up – well, then that's how these things go.

Except.

"Regardless," Arthur is saying, voice less intimate by degrees but willfully matter-of-fact. "You clearly keep to a soldier's regimen."

"You've found me out," Eames mutters, and makes a show of yawning. "Got to keep the birds pining after me." As he says this, he's thinking, Shit. A man can only restrain himself to a point. Arthur this close, Arthur deadly competent until he isn't, and then _needing_ Eames. Arthur agreeing, for no reason Eames can rightly fathom, to have a drink with him in some seedy pub Eames has been frequenting for at least his last five aliases. Arthur telling him things, and maybe not lying at all.

But right now, something has arrested in Arthur's expression; a kind of chagrin, and then disappointment, and then irritation. They chase each other until he visibly forces everything away, like clearing off a table by throwing everything on the floor. Closes up like a book, like a door slamming shut, and he says, "It was a pleasure working with you, Mr. Eames. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

So that's the first time Arthur walks out of his life, because he's actually gone the next morning – called away to some new project or another. A bloke can really expect to get passed around, this business.

But it doesn't matter, because SIS offers to pull some foreign strings so that Eames can feasibly use a passport again under his own name. Because France needs him for a paramilitary project.

Battle simulation: they want Eames to do the introductory training to shared dreaming, because they're going to make their soldiers battle for hours topside – so, days spent under, killing each other. It wouldn't do for them to run out of bullets, after all.

Eames isn't a very good teacher; it's hard to show someone else how to learn what comes naturally to you. But he supervises the training, and it's infinitely exhausting, but he doesn't get killed too much – and all three times, he's reasonably sure it's an accident. He just keeps wandering the battlefield and restocking various artillery depositories, trying to look back on his life and figure out how he got to this point. Anyway, he reasons, it's not like they'd be able to dream up ammunition in real life. It's probably not a good idea to get in the habit of trying. Here, at least, he feels necessary.

This is when Eames starts passively contemplating a method for telling the difference between dreams and reality. But he doesn't think too hard on it, just leaves it on the backburner, since in the evenings he goes to shithole pubs and wins quite a lot of money at cards. There are enough in Paris that no one gets too used to seeing his face.

It isn't for another year that he's told he'll be loaned out again, this time to the US, due to some new training cooperative. Basically: same shit, different country.

Only here, many months later and on American soil, he meets Mallorie again. Between the two of them, they hammer out (and test, over a period of time and an overtired staff of volunteers) a working solution: totems.

* * *

Eames gets into the city after midnight, exhausted and depressed, but admittedly well-fed. International flights are too long to fly any but first class, and it's not as though he actually had to pay for the upgrade – just work for it. Child's play, really. His baby blues didn't hurt, and he long ago mastered his entirely-too-distracting mouth right along with sleight-of-hand.

He doesn't call Nash when he gets in, and he doesn't go to the Plaza Hotel where he knows someone has a room for him. Instead, he chats up the woman at Information, and she gives him a map and calls him a cab.

The map has a slogan across the top in appropriately gothic letters – "The Dark-Deco State." It also has the employee's phone number on it, and Eames wonders if maybe he comes on too strong. He tries to apply this possible revelation to the other aspects life. It neither illuminates nor assists with his current mood.

The interior of the cab is dark and a bit grimy, but the city lights spill in through the windows, shifting and chasing each other: usually white or dim yellow, but sometimes red or or blue or hot pink, dependant upon the myriad neon lights. They slip in and out of his dark little space like shooting stars, inspiring hope until you realize they're just another fabrication, giving false hope before vanishing forever.

The cabbie rattles his bone box, friendly but not incessant, and drives just recklessly enough to demonstrate his expertise. Eames doesn't fear for his life in the slightest. The man has pegged him for a tourist because of his accent, which is fine. It's almost true – he's never been to Jersey. He can pretend he's here to see the sights or whatever.

"...so some locals blame him for the crime rate, but I say it's our resident lunatics, can't be smart to lock 'em all up together like that – "

Eames hums politely, pretending to listen, and thinks about the rigid line of Arthur's shoulders, Arthur's closed-off back, Arthur furious for no reason Eames could fathom – _Arthur_ is the one getting married. _Arthur_ is the one building a home, who knows everything about his life, who knows what the fuck to expect, and can plan for it. Arthur's getting his fucking ducks in a row, and Eames is just – drifting around in the ether, rootless, aimless. Arbitrary.

Fuck.

It reminds Eames of Budapest. They'd gone halves on a cheap flat to run the job, and it took for-bleeding-ever, and Eames hadn't minded at all. He _liked_ being underfoot, liked the surprise coloring Arthur's cheeks every time he seemed to remember Eames was essentially living with him for the duration of the job. They argued over work; where to eat; what to watch on the telly; Arthur's atrocious Hungarian accent; Eames' atrocious Hungarian clothing that he couldn't refrain from buying (or stealing).

But they never talked about eating without each other, or maybe watching different shows in different rooms. At one point Eames got it in his head to cook, and after arguing about what to make – well, instead of picking out two recipes, they just combined them.

And it _worked_. It was wonderful, but not as wonderful as Arthur, watching him over the table, happy and very shy about showing it. A bit of flour on his cheek. Olive oil on the back of his hand, and – his eyes, watchful, warmed through.

At any rate, the whole job was meant as a distraction. And it had helped. Arthur had seemed... despondent, after Mal and Cobb had gotten serious. It's possible that the point-man had simply felt left out, but – well, the forger had wondered, obviously. Arthur had never said anything about it, but then Arthur has been dedicated and loyal all the time Eames has known him. Cobb could still say "Jump," and Arthur would ask, "Who's the mark." To this very day.

Regardless, Arthur had been surprisingly enthusiastic about running point for the Budapest job. Eames hadn't even needed to lie to him about strong-arming the previous man into the Danube to make a place for him.

"...if you don't mind my asking, sir," the cabbie is saying, and Eames apologizes and asks the man to repeat himself.

"Oh, business." Eames says, meeting the man's eyes in the rearview mirror.

"Best of luck, sir," the man says, "Keep a signal eye out, yeah?"

The cab lets him off at Basin street. Eames shoulders his luggage and takes in his new temporary home: cheap and superficially clean, with a poorly-lit lobby and less-than-savory alleyways. Perfect.

Eames checks in under the name "Edward A. Mesar," and declines the very unenthusiastic clerk's offer to carry his bag up.

Creaky elevator. Tattered carpeting. Spare, stained wallpaper. He opens the door to room 402, throws his carry-on into a chair, and shrugs out of his jacket.

"Mr. Eames."

Eames pauses, glancing over into the corner. "Ah. Mr. Couric. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

This is the problem, and it's very serious. Well, there's a whole host of them, actually, but the meat of the issue that Eames uses false names and aliases the way some men use cologne. He hadn't even chosen his hotel – not really seedy as shit, just cheap, suitably low-profile - until he'd talked to the woman, Jamie, she'd written it above her phone number. He hasn't spoken to Nash yet, and anyway Nash doesn't have his working number for bloody _America_. And his features shouldn't be known, or his plans, and given Eames' ability to vanish into the woodwork – these are all proof positive that _Joseph Couric shouldn't be here_.

The other really major problem is that Eames is growing complacent if he didn't once think to give his room the bare minimum of fucking security checks, maybe pull his head out of his arse and _look the fuck around_.

Last, but most pressing: obsessing over Arthur is absolutely going to get him killed one day. And if he's just used to Arthur running point and doing all the security triple-checks for him, well, the Fischer job was almost a fucking year ago, and before that, there'd been another year of Eames pissing away his time forging physical crap, turning down every extraction job to come his way, refusing to work alongside incompetence.

So if today is the day Eames dies, he has absolutely no one else to blame.

But, since Eames is basically the best actor in the history of actors in the history of the world, he plays it up like he knew Couric was there, like it's nothing. The calm, the confidence, the _knowing_ of it settles over him like a cloak, flawless, real-time forgery. Eames is a different person: he's someone who isn't pining or lonely, and he's someone who isn't surprised or afraid.

He is rewarded with a flicker of uncertainty in his employer's hazel eyes, and he takes a moment to mentally compare the man before him to the somewhat grainy photo that's clipped to the paperwork, tucked into his bag, well-read.

Neatly gelled and combed hair, mousey brown, parted faultlessly to the side; strong, square jaw, regular skin that is not pale nor ruddy; languid posture, correct but relaxed. He's wearing a dark suit with amethyst-enamel cuff-links, a bit kooky, but subdued enough that Arthur wouldn't slam the door in his face, like he has with Eames on several occasions.

And then Eames notices the tie, and tucks away the base hysteria, since Arthur would actually probably choke to death on it: deep emerald and lemon yellow, crossing each other haphazardly, patterned and gradated and completely wrong for the simple cut of the man's suit. It's a nightmare, ordered chaos. Eames adores it. But then he decides abruptly that he maybe needs to never think about Arthur again, if this is what he's come to. His life as related to Arthur. Bloody hell.

So Joseph Couric's sitting in a ratty maroon chair in the corner, and now he's standing and offering his hand in two quick strides. Firm grip, broad shoulders, overall musculature and bearing hinting at martial training. And he carries himself like knows half a hundred ways to fire the gun tucked into his shoulder holster. Eames doesn't allow his eyes to slide to the slight, telltale bulge even once during their conversation. Though he does scan the man's face for form's sake, and lets himself be seen doing it.

So the assessment Eames comes to is: serious as shit, but entirely capable of tempering his intensity with nonchalance. Also, in person, the scars are really a world more horrifying than on paper.

Eames sort of itches, wondering how perfectly he could manifest the whorls and puckers of flesh. Doubts it will ever come to that, but sort of wishes it might. He feels that way about a lot of things, honestly.

"Is there something I can do for you? Nash informed me that we would begin Wednesday – "

"What Nash may or may not have said," Couric interrupts, flat and businesslike with the barest hint of an edge, "is of no consequence. He is no longer attached to this project."

"I see," Eames says politely, while his head is screaming, FUCK.

"It was a quite a long flight," Eames murmurs, neatly hanging his jacket up in the closet by the door. "I hope you'll excuse me. Jet lag and all that."

"Of course," Joseph says, leaning forward a bit, open to anything Eames has or is that might give him away. Eames can see it, can practically smell the feral intelligence on this man, but he is nothing if not resourceful.

"I'd offer you a pint," the forger says apologetically, "But I've only just arrived, you see."

"You can buy the first round tomorrow." The man makes his way toward the door, and he is definitely breaching Eames' personal comfort zone as he passes. But then he settles his hand on the knob, and continues, "We'll meet at the Winnie Coto Country Club. I hope your golf skills are up to par, Mr. Eames."

He cracks a smile which clearly translates to _pun intended_, and it's pretty much here that Eames realizes he _likes_ Joseph Couric. The man's a bit scary, but he doesn't seem malignant. And a sharp intellect certainly helps; Eames has worked with enough functionally retarded morons to know.

It's better to be manipulated by a genius, and risk the possibility of being sacrificed for the greater good, than to have your life threatened due to poor planning. Eames already knows of too many really stupid ways to die.

After Couric leaves, Eames pulls out a misappropriated bottle of bourbon and pours himself a drink. It even tastes a bit better for the lie. Things usually do.

* * *

Eames golfs and drinks and plays the part of the wealthy English aristocrat for the next week He does this exceedingly well, so much so that, at one point, Joseph takes him aside. He says, behind a half-empty glass of 1887 red, "I'd heard you were good, but this... You're like a completely different person on a whim, Mr. Eames. It's fascinating."

"One does what one can, Mr. Couric," Eames says modestly, but he allows himself a boastful smile. Couric gives him a hard look, then visibly relaxes.

"Call me Joe, Mr. Eames."

"Call me Eames, Joe."

There's that out of the way, then. Eames has always preferred to dispense with formalities in his professional dealings. But maybe he has it backwards, maybe he – well, Prescott Belmont approaches them then, and Eames manages to get over himself.

"Shall I deal you in, boys?" The man asks brightly, and Eames can feel Joe watching him with utmost attention, conscious of every detail. If Eames were not a performer, he'd be alarmed.

"Wouldn't miss it, old chap," Eames says, his accent polished up for show. Because what they've been doing is pretty far removed from dreamsharing, and even if Joe is more or less running point, or whatever, Eames hasn't seen hide nor hair of the mark since he got off the plane. Joe seems to be taking his time with figuring out the best approach, and so far he hasn't mentioned any of his plans. It's just as well; Eames needs the distraction more than the money, and as always – a hand of cards brings him infinite, visceral comfort.

Here's how he operates: if Eames is gambling in places he'd like to come back to, he keeps it about 65/45; he doesn't make a killing, and he doesn't win enough that people come to the conclusion that he's cheating. He staggers it, and still has plenty of extra pocket money without arousing too much notice. But if he's in a new place, a complete stranger, he purposely loses the first four or five games – generally about two-fifty quid or, in this particular instance, four-ten American.

After that, it's a slow build – every couple of games, small winnings, cautious plays That's how it's been the past few days, and though Joe has not yet expressed how very unimpressed he is, Eames can see it in the man's eyes every time he follows Eames' hands and finds them innocuous; clean; without guile or spare aces. He's appeared to be losing (or hardly breaking even) since they lied their way into the club with forged references and designer suits.

So today, Eames cleans house. He drinks a lot, which isn't unusual, but this time he projects it: fumbling, intoxicated, _lucky_. Game after game after game, it's perfect. When they eventually head out, he's got seven grand in his pocket and Joe is eerily silent. Eames, though. Eames feels great.

After, the mayor – Anthony Gonzales or Gardenia or something, whatever, asks them if they'd like a smoke. Joe accepts, but Eames declines respectfully. "Got a bit of healthy rivalry with a chap from Westminster," he says. "Got to keep in top form."

Mayor Anthony laughs good-naturedly, claps him on the shoulder. "If only my own life was as worry-free as yours, Reginald!"

"The height of relaxation, that's me all right," Eames says, reacting as naturally to the assumed name as if it were truly his own.

"You probably shouldn't have done that," Joe says much later in a soft vioce, looking over his shoulder. There's no one behind them, or following them – Eames has already checked. Sure, yeah, he's been distracted lately. But he's not a complete fool. "You've drawn attention to us."

"There were no hard feelings," he replies, pursing his lips and glancing sharply at his companion. "People do get lucky sometimes. And these men, they're all wealthier than god. It gives them a perverse pleasure, to see a man win like I did – especially after losing all week. They think they could be me, only in a business venture; a love affair; a hunting expedition. Their very own next card game." Eames exhales, and the Jersey air puffs up, chilled. "Can't do it all the time, of course."

Joe walks Eames back to the Basin Street Hotel, like he's done every night. Eames has no idea where the man's staying, and actually – he hasn't tried to find out. If it'd been Arthur, he'd have known immediately. Arthur would be appalled and paranoid, not knowing. Eames holds back a sigh.

"Also," Eames says at length, looking up at the blank slate sky, "if you play a long game, your quarry will eventually come to you."

Joe looks at him for a time, and Eames can practically hear the thoughts rolling over in his head, churning and crushing into each other and wearing down the cogs into a working, manhandled assertion of order. Forced, but functional. He's a just a bit like Cobb in this respect – thinks too loudly, head too full to keep it completely concealed. But Cobb has a tendency to drift, to daydream – assemble his castles with gossamer strands, panes of light, weightless creation; with Joe, it's all solid, always heavy. Immovable as stone once the parts grind into place.

"Is there anything," Joe asks, finally, "that you do not know about human nature, Eames?"

Eames smiles fiercely. "There is nothing I can't make someone want," he says, even as he thinks: I know nothing about how to make someone _need_.

* * *

The next day there's a handwritten note on his bedside table, and it has a time and a place in even, featureless handwriting. Eames doesn't really want to think about how Joe got into his room without waking him, and decides to take it at face value and maybe be arsed to set some actual alarms. Arthur was always good about that; everyday was an adventure, living with him.

Eames brushes his teeth, unconcerned about the snails-pace this job has taken, since Joe is paying him very good money to basically schmooze and con and steal and cheat. He's gotten them into the upper echelon, and he's won the approval and regard of some of the most powerful men in the city. He'd even come up with a creative cover for Joe's scars:

"Oh, he doesn't like to talk about it, poor fellow," he'd pitched in a stage whisper. "But he was riding trail with a lovely young lady who had a fondness for gallivanting a bit off the beaten trail." Eames has innate mastery of face and gesture, and uses both to express his story. "So Mr. Sexton takes his whip to his horse and goes after her – only it's steep, since she's a bit of a reckless daredevil." He's got the attention of everyone, at this point, and milks the pause for all it's worth. "His horse trips – breaks a leg, they had to put the poor beast down – and these branches come up out of nowhere."

When Eames makes a sharp jerk with the flat of his hand, up near his mouth, he elicits unanimous winces and more than one shocked gasp. "What's the term you gentlemen use across the pond? Closelined."

(Later, Joe will say: "You're not even British around these guys, you're a walking stereotype."

"Cheers," Eames will reply, grinning broadly.)

Later, he tells another version:

"Not that it's a secret," Eames had begun, "but you can imagine the poor old boy wouldn't know how to bring it up. Some thieves broke into his estate..." This story ends with 'Mr. Sexton' being tied up and subjected to heinous acts of torture. "Nothing I could ever repeat, my friends," Eames had said in a bitter stage whisper. "Not while those scoundrels are still at large."

("Won't they know you're lying?" Joe will ask, appalled.

Eames will grin. "It's best to keep your backstory multiple choice. Your fellows can pick out whichever rumor they like best, and be satisfied.")

But the note is for a restaurant, and it looks like dinner reservations; so Eames gives them a ring and asks what their dress code is, what the hell, it's refreshing to be straightforward every once in awhile.

Eames has the bulk of the day to himself, which gives him time to track down a decent suit. He drops by Platinum Pressers, a dry cleaning place in a wealthier area, and shamelessly flirts with the young man watching the store.

"Guess which one's mine," he purrs, and in the end he doesn't even have to search for something his size; the kid's got a good eye. He's so smooth the clerk never even asks for his ticket, though he scribbles his phone number on the back of the receipt.

Ten quid for a five-hundred quid suit? Eames hands the kid an ugly American twenty and tells him to keep the change. He hopes it isn't too much of a disappointment when he never calls.

So Eames gets lunch (he pays full price), wanders a bit, and gets a feel for the city. Eventually he ends up back in his room, and he's thinking about showering and maybe getting ready, or wanking to some pay-per-view porno.

His cell phone rings. Eames has a carefully filtered network of forwarding and misdirection and false names, and only a handful of people have a direct line to him.

It's Ariadne. So of course he answers.

"Shouldn't little girls be in bed this time of night?" he asks, double-checking his watch and counting forward in his head.

"You know me. Out-of-control teenager." Her voice crackles a bit over the phone, shitty reception halfway across the globe and all, but her laugh sounds strained all on its own.

"To what do I owe this pleasure, then?" He says warmly, smiling, making sure it can be heard in his voice. Ariadne isn't necessarily one for hello-how-are-you calls.

There's silence on the line, short enough to be overlooked by anyone but Eames; he makes it his business to ferret out tells. "I actually may need some help," she confesses, and there's just the tiniest bit of anxiety in her voice.

"I see," Eames replies slowly, while a dozen scenarios scroll through his mind. "Well, what can I do for you?"

Another pause, like she's trying to figure out what to say. "Well – where are you?"

"Abroad," he says, helpfully.

She sighs, half chuckle but all exasperation. "You know how you're – ah, very well connected?"

"Well, my dear, that depends. Politically? Financially?" Eames shifts the phone to his shoulder to free up his hands. He's giving the suit a once-over, admiring the fine fabric and the cut of the jacket. It's unaltered, which is nice – it's awkward as all get-out, moving around in clothing that's been tailored to somebody else.

"Of dubious legality," she says.

Eames hums thoughtfully, wonders why she isn't going to Arthur about this. Lord knows he's got a list of unsavories just as long as what Eames has. Ariadne can really not be wanting for criminal friends. "What do you need from the market?"

"This – well, it won't be a secret, but. I'd like to be the one to tell him."

"Duly noted. You have my utmost confidence."

"Can you – get misoprostol," she begins, "and mifepristone?"

Her voice doesn't even waver. Eames says, with hardly a pause, "The usual doses?"

He does not ask who they are for and he doesn't pry. However, Ariadne is smaller and lighter than the average female: he's not about to get her poisoned.

She says she doesn't know, and tells Eames her height and weight and, for good measure, her BMI. He writes it down with care and precision.

"Let me make a few phone calls," He says gently. "I'll give you a time and a place. Lunch, perhaps. On me."

"Thanks, Eames. Um, how much – "

"A friend of yours is a friend of mine," he says, carelessly offering her a way out.

"I'm sorry." Her voice hitches.

"Never be sorry, Ariadne," he says, firm and not at all unkind. "As I said. A friend of yours is a friend of mine."

"Thank you," she says again, with feeling, and hangs up the phone.

Eames sets her up with his most respectable contact, wires the money for lunch, and then has Yusuf write out and email the formula to a capable pharmacist in Paris. He's roundabout enough that the chemist doesn't know who they're for, and the woman meeting Ariadne for lunch doesn't know what they are. The chain of people in between know exactly what they need to do their job, and nothing else.

By the time everything is orchestrated, Eames showers and dresses and arrives at the restaurant almost right on time. This disturbs him, as he prefers to be quite early or fashionably late. But perhaps it's good it mix it up now and then.

Their names aren't on any list, which is fine, since Eames flirts with the hostess and manages to modify one of the reservations – while she's blushing and looking away – enough to say "Alex Raboulde" instead of "Ann Radack". Party of two.

Joe shows up at the tail end, wearing an inexplicably purple suit. Not garish – a deep plum, almost black. And again with the green tie. Arthur would have fits.

"What's this about?" Eames asks after they order the appetizers. "I don't know our mark. You haven't given me anyone to forge, and you haven't consulted me with whatever it is you're turning over in your head."

Joe dabs at his mouth, and Eames wonders at this because Joe always seems to be sitting with his hands folded to cover it, or drinking from some broad glass, or hanging his head just a bit. Eames has only now realized that – well, the man tries to casually hide them. The scars. Tries to misdirect always, and Eames imagines what it must be like, to have people staring at your mouth all goddamn day.

Well. Maybe he knows, just a wee bit, what that's like.

"It's all well and good," Eames continues, "as I certainly don't mind being paid to lie and cheat and steal. But I can't fathom what you get out of it, mate."

Joe looks at him for a long moment, and Eames can read it clearly on his face: deciding if he's going to trust Eames, or if he's going to lie; if he's going to say anything at all.

Then Eames says, "Unless you've been testing me this entire time. What, my references weren't good enough?"

Joe's face clouds, but it dissolves as soon as Eames grins. "You can always judge a forger by the merit of his forgeries."

"It's true," Joe says, smiling. "Look, I'll come clean. I need a partner. I'm looking to get in with the Odessa clan – that's one of the crime families around here, if you didn't know – and I don't act by halves. I don't get my hands dirty unless it's a sure thing."

Eames, listening carefully, thinks: I know someone just like you. I know someone who never likes to get involved unless he's reasonably certain it's a sure thing.

But then he realizes what Joe actually means, and not just what he's saying: he wants to get in with the family to take it over. He wants to use it as a stepping stone and work his way to the top. Uncomfortably, Eames wonders what Joe Couric thinks he has, that he could erect an underworld monopoly amidst families like Falcone, Galante, Maroni. Odessa.

So Eames says, "I don't appreciate being lead on," despite being paid for his time; but he also says, "I'll think about it," since the venture is not without appeal. Eames has never been a crimelord before.

But Joe says the initial job – the billionaire and whatever his 7-year secret is – hasn't gone off the table yet. The information, Joe says, can be used as leverage to get them anywhere they want. A springboard, like a jack-in-the-box – that's how he describes it.

After dinner, Eames goes back to the hotel. He takes off his stolen suit and hangs it up, then strips and stretches out on his queen-sized bed, blankets hopelessly twisted from night after restless night, and starts flipping through the television directory for some filthy gay smut.

For the second time today, his phone rings. He's tempted to let it go.

He doesn't. But he wishes he had.

"Eames," Arthur is saying furiously into the phone, and Eames thinks, bloody fucking hell.

* * *

The second time Eames meets Arthur, almost two years have passed. He's been working with Mal for months, and she really is a lovely person: brilliant and passionate and certain of everything in her heart. He's never met anyone like her. God knows Eames isn't half as sure as she is, these days.

So it's really Mal's idea, about the totems, in the end. But while the incarnation was all her own, the divine inspiration required to dream it up came strictly from Eames. He doesn't mind, though: honestly, and with some unease, he isn't sure Mallorie would ever have spared a concern to the danger of losing sense of reality.

Cobb, who has been researching with other top scholars in the field of dream theory, turns up after they've finished their fifth successful round of tests. He's a bit more confident now after some months away, and he shakes Eames' hand earnestly – but he notices the flicker of unease in Cobb's eyes as he glances between the thief and Mal.

Eames is all heart, though. He'd been bored as hell until the SIS transferred him into Mal's capable hands, and the last half-year or so has been – well, one of his best. He's grateful, sincerely. So later they're at a bar, having drinks and catching up, and he leans close to Cobb when Mal goes to the loo:

"Pay more attention to your lady friend. She's been pining all this time, and you're being quite rude to ignore her."

Cobb, shocked and delighted and relieved, looks very seriously at Eames for a long second; then his face splits into the first honest-to-god smile Eames has seen in – well, longer than he can count, and Cobb looks ten years younger.

"Go on, then," Eames says, and Cobb does.

They develop something of a group dynamic, Mallorie and Eames comfortably affectionate, Mallorie and Cobb awkwardly but more intimately so. But, whatever, with enough time monkeys could write Shakespeare, yeah?

They've only just fallen into a rhythm, though, when Eames is early at the lab writing up a report – alone, as is his wont when he actually has to concentrate; it can't all be fluid brilliance, after all – when the door creaks open. Eames turns around with a pen in his mouth and a hello on his lips.

It dies, and the pen falls to the floor and clatters loudly in the silence.

Arthur, older and harder and unsmiling, looks about as shocked as Eames feels.

Arthur, with the yellow and orange light of dawn streaking in behind him, coloring him, a desaturated specter from an old memory suddenly breathed into life.

"I'm sorry," the young man says, taking half a step back. His voice is a touch deeper. Eames feels it in his ribs. "I didn't think anyone was here."

"Please don't apologize, Arthur," Eames manages, and then stands with a fluid ease he doesn't feel and motions to the desks, the tables, the chairs. "There's plenty of room for both of us. And it's good to see you again."

"You too, Mr. Eames," Arthur allows, and there's something guarded and careful and so very _withheld_ about his speech and his actions, and Eames wonders where the fuck the bright not-quite-grown adolescent has been spirited off to.

They work in silence until Cobb and Mal come in, though Eames doesn't actually get anything done.

But he he doesn't mind; it's enough to witness such a happy reunion, how they put their arms around him jointly. Like he's their kid, or like he's family. Like he belongs.

* * *

Eames watches him carefully for the next few weeks, transposing the Arthur of his present with the Arthur of his memory: just a bit taller, just a bit more muscled; rigidity replaced by structured grace; mirthless, where before he was free with his smiles. He's free with his frustrations now, his criticisms and sharp observations; occasionally, his startled approval. Hopelessly blunt, still: that hasn't changed. Eames hopes it never does.

Arthur doesn't exactly avoid Eames, but neither does he speak to him more than strictly necessary. He gives no indication of like or dislike, but there are times where Eames catches an expression of open scrutiny; but then the intelligence specialist looks absently away, as if Eames has never crossed his thoughts.

About three weeks of this pass, to Eames' mounting irritation; until, working late and once again thinking he's blissfully alone, Arthur wanders into the office. Inexplicably, he shuts the door behind him. Eames can hear the lock click across the empty expanse of air, final, unavoidable.

"Can I help you, Arthur?"

There's some kind of dark intent glimmering in the young man's eyes as he approaches, steps clipped and strides long. He doesn't stop until he's leaning over Eames' desk, face hard, expression severe. He's practically baring his teeth.

"Look, Eames," Arthur says with quiet intensity, "Cobb and Mal are – look, they're all I have, alright? If you do anything to compromise – "

"Arthur," Eames says wearily. "Are you really warning me off your little made family? Do you think they like me better than you?" As if there were a world where that could be true.

"What?" Arthur asks, perplexed. "No, I – wait. I was talking about Mal."

Eames blinks, just a bit distracted by Arthur's proximity, but then his mind catches up. "Mal? Arthur, do you – you think I fancy _Mal_?" He pauses to consider it, then frowns. "Are we in primary, Arthur? Are we five? What?"

There is a long silence where Arthur's confusion deepens, but he moves off and takes a step back, pursing his lips. "You don't?"

"God, no, Arthur." Eames sighs, rubbing his eyes. "On all counts, even. You – are you really this oblivious? No, Arthur, put it on the record. I am not interested in Mallorie Pennyworth. I wish her and Dominic Cobb all the best."

"Oh," Arthur says, confused. "But – you just seem," he begins, and pauses. "Mal said you were – pining."

"Ah, no, Arthur. I told Cobb that Mal was pining at one point, but – "

"What?" Arthur is looking at him like he's some kind of complicated puzzle, like a sudoku with only three numbers to start off, impossible, missing almost all the pieces, so how can you know what fits? How can you _solve_ that? "Why would you do that?"

"Because she was? And for whatever bizarre reason, he had the same concerns you do, young Arthur." Eames is tired of this conversation. He haphazardly puts his desk in order, which means he makes some stacks that are indistinguishable from other stacks, and anyway he won't even look at them again, probably. Since they're disorganized. Since he's fucking distracted by fucking Arthur, and it wasn't anything and it isn't anything now and what the fuck is Eames even doing.

"So who," Arthur starts, but he's interrupted by the abrupt slam of Eames' chair into the table, some papers falling ineffectually to the floor.

"Look," Eames says sharply, "You've basically ignored me since you've got here, and I don't know what I did to offend you or – or _turn you off_, and I understand a lot of time has passed, but – "

"Oh," Arthur says again, but the inflection is completely different. It's a soft exhalation, and Eames reads the dawning realization with a nervous twist in his gut. "I thought – but don't you like – birds," Arthur stammers.

Eames stares at him. And then he snorts. And then he's laughing, rubbing his nose, trying to keep from losing his mind since Arthur is fucking retarded.

"I'm fucking retarded," Arthur says quietly, palm slapped against his forehead.

Eames takes pity. "No, not retarded. Just a bit oblivious, darling."

After that, it's easier. Arthur tells Eames in a roundabout way that he's – well, that he's been thinking about the forger pretty much this whole time. How he didn't know what to say, when he saw Eames sitting alone that morning; how it was like a blow to the stomach, literally, like Eames may as well have punched him as sat there with the sun on his face.

"That's funny. I felt the same way about you," Eames murmurs, cradling Arthur's face, pressing against his mouth. He's kissing Arthur the way he thinks he maybe should've kissed him two years ago. Sliding his fingers through that silky hair, thumbing those ridiculous cheekbones, easing his tongue over Arthur's as the dark-haired man opens for him. He feels the kiss spike up in his stomach, swirl in his guts, _glitter through his veins_, like he's a child, like he's a teenager, this stupid, overwhelming, impossible feeling.

But Arthur, he slips his arms around Eames' waist, startled and tentative; skids his fingertips searchingly, reverently. Moans quietly like he really has wanted this, for _years_, clings to Eames like he's desperate and afraid this isn't real.

The heat curls low in the thief's gut even as his heart hammers and soars. He knows what that's like. He knows it exactly.


	3. The ruins at my feet

The thing is, Eames is a world-class career criminal. He has his own personal network of informants, half of which actually do answer only to him. This is a staggering ratio. The average man of illegitimate means can hardly count his table of loyal compatriots on one hand, and yet Eames has dozens.

Eames is held in high esteem by acquaintances, employers, and adversaries alike; he is _very good at what he does_. And he does many, many things. Infinitely capable, some might say. The perfect man for any job.

So it's more than a mite irritating to have Arthur, of all people, a goddamn point man, call him up like he has any right and berate him like a child. Eames thinks, Fuck this.

Then he thinks: Already? Why is this my life?

"Ah, Arthur. So good to hear your voice," Eames tries, but there's no feeling in it. He can practically feel the point man seething over four thousand miles of ocean. Frowning, Eames checks his watch. "Isn't it a bit late for – "

"You took the fucking job, Eames," Arthur growls.

"Oh. That," Eames exhales through his nose. "Yes."

"After all that bullshit with Nash, how could you go behind my back – "

"Care to enlighten me, Arthur," Eames says sharply, "how anything I do is your business?"

There's a second of long-distance static, but it doesn't matter since Arthur isn't saying anything. Finally, he grinds out, "You're my goddamn _partner_, what are you – "

"_Cobb_ was your partner, Arthur, if you hadn't fucking noticed, and he's retired now. _I_ am not your anything." Forgers are free agents anyway, and Eames and Arthur haven't been _partners_ since Mal died and Arthur fucking _left_. "We've done _one_ job together in the past two years."

"Because you haven't taken any!" Arthur explodes, voice hard. "We worked _well_ together, before." When Cobb could get still get legit work and Arthur and Eames were the mercenaries of the dreamsharing underworld. "Extractions that require a forger pay top-dollar. I'm the best goddamn point-man around, and you – "

"So it's about the money, then?" Eames _tries_. He really does. But he just can't keep the bitterness out of his voice, not when it's raging so violently in his belly.

"It just _made sense_," Arthur almost shouts, "so why the _fuck_ would you go under without me – "

What Eames doesn't say: you're getting married, who orchestrates dream heists with ex – ex-_partners_ when they're getting _married_.

What he does say, dryly: "You don't _own_ me, Arthur."

"And you're not an idiot, Eames! You – you steal the unstealable, and you could beat a _magician_ at blackjack and he wouldn't even know you've cheated!"

"Arthur – "

" – and you've got at least ten _career paths_ waiting for you if you ever decide to go legit and – and _fucking deal tables _if you wanted, and you've forged doctorate degrees for _professional witnesses_ in _high profile political cases_, no one else can pull that off! You _never_ get caught – "

"How did you know," Eames starts, but Arthur bowls him over.

"You think I don't keep tabs on you? You think I don't know every fucking job you've taken, you think I don't – "

"_Arthur_," Eames hisses, and the point-man finally shuts his mouth. "What's all this about, then?"

"My _point _is, Eames," Arthur says heavily, "There are so many other things you could be doing, and anyway I _know _you're not hurting for money, so why – "

"Having a look at my accounts again, are we?" Eames snaps.

"Look," Arthur says, just a little bit conciliatory. "Nash is a real fucker, and I know what I said. About not working with him. But I'd've _gone with you_."

"He's not even on the job anymore."

There's another silence, some more static. Eames basically hates cell phones.

"You're stateside," Arthur says tersely. "And you haven't taken a job without me since Mal – since she died."

More things Eames doesn't say: I was grieving, Arthur. I went to pay my respects to that _closed fucking casket_, and you were off with Cobb, and I was alone and _grieving_, and I was _alone_.

What he says is: "Right."

"When are you coming back?" Arthur asks, tired.

"Well," Eames begins, "Nash was very wrong on several points about Joseph Couric."

"What do you mean," Arthur asks, voice guarded.

"He's not working for one of the families. Or if he is, I haven't seen evidence of it." There's a noise behind him – the TV switching back to the default menu screen – and the sudden break in silence nearly gives him a heart attack.

"So where is this job going," Arthur asks, voice tight.

"What are you doing next Friday?"

"Will you be in town?"

"For a few days, yes," Eames decides.

"Then I'll be with you," Arthur says frankly, and removed of its context it might send slow shivers down Eames' back, cause desire and hot, slick want to curl slow in his belly; removed of time and space, and in another life, those words would be full of promise.

"The Saint Germain flat, then," he says, and hangs up without thinking about it further.

By the time Eames gets around to ordering the porno, he isn't really in the mood anymore. The actors are young and limber and attractive, and they don't have any scars or gunshot wounds. They are too easy with their expressions of ecstasy and lust, and nothing feels earned – just freely given, and meaningless.

Their hair is blonde or light brown or black, but none are possessed of that deep mahogany shade, dark but sometimes sporadically lighter from the sun; and if they've styled it to look sex-mussed or flyaway, that's all well and good – but Eames wishes wistfully it were slicked back, proper, the better to come undone. Wishes for harder features he has to work to get past. Wishes for the dark burn scar of a hardly-dodged bullet on someone's upper-left shoulder, or the tiny almost-incision near their left hip.

Whatever, so he's thinking about Arthur again anyway, and isn't that just story of Eames' life. Can't even get off watching a porno, a porno with fucking hot blokes, without imagining it's fucking Arthur. Or Eames fucking Arthur, or – bloody_ hell_.

Eames wishes he knew how this got so fucked up. It's one of the major questions of his life. But he's got this picture of Arthur in his head, Arthur from years ago. Arthur telling Eames he'd done some research, made some contacts. Arthur telling him, "This is only the beginning, Eames," and _smiling_ about it.

Because there was a time – just one fucking time, but it _happened_ – that Arthur chose Eames over Cobb.

* * *

So once upon a time, after they've made out a bit (really fucking mind-blowing kisses, but some groping that, while brilliant at first, has been terrible because it essentially leaves Eames with perpetual blue balls) but before they've actually got around to fucking: Eames finishes up his obligatory run with SIS, which means he is also done working with the US government. He's straightened out a couple of charges on his favored alias (which may or may not be his real one, first name redacted), and the world is pretty much his oyster right now.

"So I guess you won't be sticking around," Arthur starts, when they're alone.

Eames has him up against a utility closet's closed door, has his arms pinned above his head and his mouth caught up in the thief's own. After a good minute or two of warm hands at his waist and chest and ribs, Arthur gently but firmly presses his palms against Eames' broad shoulders, pushes him back resolutely.

The effect is somewhat spoiled by the fact that he doesn't quite stop kissing Eames.

"Look," Arthur is saying, breathless against his mouth, "I really can't – I need – " He's got his eyebrows knit together, his gaze unfocused, lust and loss chasing each other over his face until they're the same thing, and his lips are swollen and Eames gets his hands on Arthur's neck, behind his head, cradles him, pulls him close.

"Come with me," Eames says against Arthur's lips. "Come _with me_."

"Okay," Arthur says, fingers twisting up tightly in Eames' collar. "Yes." And then it's Arthur pressing his mouth to Eames' cheek and temple and jaw, Arthur kissing Eames' ear and whispering, "_Please_."

Three weeks later they're in Berlin, and Arthur has either a very complicated or a very simple working relationship with the US Army – they never really talk about it, but Arthur is maybe honorably discharged and doing his own thing now (which is, very emphatically, Eames); or, Arthur is still sort-of-but-maybe-not-really in their employ. Off the books. Like a private contractor.

Or, Arthur just has about a hundred people in his back pocket, who call in favors and give him a lot of money, who happen to work for the US government. Though Eames will readily admit, it's more than a mite reassuring to have something powerful at your back.

So Eames and Arthur sort of weave together a reliable, diverse network, and they start out by looking for problems. Then they start profiling the ones that can be solved by dream espionage, and soon after that they're getting jobs.

After a good three months, Arthur has evolved to the position of point-man, and Eames, who was already a forger (and a thief and a liar and a conman and a card sharp and...) is still a forger; only it's different now, bigger, larger-than-life. He gets to be anybody, the greatest actor in the world, and mould his dream-reality however he likes. They join up with others in the newly-budding field, architects and extractors and chemists. Everything is new, everything is fun – just enough danger to keep Eames intrigued, just enough intrigue to keep Arthur dangerous. It's basically fantastic.

Dom and Mal continue working closely on dreamtech theory, and what's better is they're working together long-term, now. Often, they put their knowledge into practice: they'll be commissioned for government-sanctioned extraction jobs, and in these cases, Arthur is invariably running point. If the situation calls for it, Eames will forge; when it doesn't, they hire him anyway, as an independent consultant. Since Eames can do anything.

It's good to see Mal again, and Eames falls easily into their old rapport. They're actually a lot alike, overflowing with creative genius, and they throw around ideas that are just this side of madness, always toeing the line between reality and divine ascension. There are some differences – Mal expresses herself in a way that is almost violently bright, so much so that she occasionally blinds herself with her own ideas; Eames, though – Eames knows his limits. He prefers not to broadcast something until he's got it all put together, or near enough as makes no matter. Once he's got it he'll never let it go, though.

And Cobb is really a fucking brilliant architect; all simplicity and grace, thoughtful beauty, with his designs. Even when a job calls for something more rustic, there is such a careful, contemplative quality to his craft, a perfect synergy to his work: his mazes are all guileless mystery and misdirection, and it's so obvious, in every scape, in every fucking blade of grass, that he loves what he does with all his heart.

The only thing Eames can complain about, actually, is how little time he actually spends with Arthur. Which was sort of the whole point, if Eames thinks about it – getting Arthur alone for an extended period of time that may or may not be the rest of his life. But there's so much to do, so much to set up, that Eames and Arthur might talk every day or every other day (sodding 20-hour-flights) – but Eames has only seen Arthur maybe five times since they left the US. And only in passing, and only on jobs, and usually with Mal and Cobb. Which is fine, they're lovely people. Eames just misses Arthur, is all.

They have a flat in Paris, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, but spend little time there, and never together. Rarely, one might be stopping in as the other leaves; but there is never more than an hour's overlap. It is heartening and depressing at once: on the one hand, Eames is definitely living in the same physical bounded space where Arthur is living. So that's good, that's a step in the right direction.

On the other hand, they aren't actually _living together_. It's almost like a timeshare, at this rate: complete bollocks, and not at all what Eames had intended when he suggested this venture.

But eventually... Arthur isn't spending a week in Stockholm while Eames is in Budapest, and when Arthur has all of his ducks in a row with the Myanmar criminal underbelly, Eames has just finished reacquainting himself with promising young scientist in Mombasa; and he's just settling down on their too-stiff, hardly-used couch back in France, is toeing off his shoes lazily, when the doorknob rattles.

And suddenly Arthur's there, in the flesh, shutting the door and smiling a sheepish, tired smile. He looks at Eames for a long moment, taking him in, and just the casual scrutiny ignites flushes of heat all down his chest, his shoulders, the back of his neck.

"Well," Arthur murmurs, voice a low rumble, "Here we are."

"Indeed," Eames says, and stands for some reason he can't fathom, his bare feet catching on the polished wood floor. He starts to walk forward, but pauses because Arthur hasn't moved from his place against the door. "I don't think we've spent a single night together beneath this roof in all the time we've owned it." He's thinking about the master bedroom and the king-sized bed Arthur'd shyly picked out; thinking about how sometimes the sheets still smell like Arthur, like he'd just been there the night before Eames'd got in, and they'd been sharing a bed for weeks and weeks without ever sharing it _together_. Then he thinks about the second bedroom, the one they'd converted into a joint office. Arthur's tidy desk. The notes he sometimes left for Eames.

Arthur licks his lips, fingers tight on his briefcase. "So you're sure about this," he says suddenly in a rush. "I mean, I'll understand if – it's been months, and we've been busy, and I just," Arthur is saying, hands in his pockets. "I've had a lot of fun, and we've still got a lot going for us, even if you don't – don't feel the same."

Eames stares at Arthur, really focuses: exhausted, hollow crescents catch the shadows under his eyes, and he's looking a touch too thin, run ragged from travel. Christ, he hasn't even put his bags down yet. And he's not avoiding Eames' gaze, but he's not – he doesn't look happy. Just resigned.

Eames remembers their last phone call, hardly a day and a half ago:

"_Do you miss me, darling?"_

"_You know I do." Breathy, soft. Rustle of fabric, something smooth like silk or brushed satin._

"_When you get here, I'm going to make you scream." Eames says this in a low, filthy voice, revels in the soft moan that slips back over the line._

"_God, Eames," Arthur'd said._

It hangs there between them, remembered heat. Nothing at all like the real thing, honestly.

"Arthur," Eames says at last. "Come here."

Arthur puts his bag down slowly and doesn't really make it to Eames, since Eames makes it to him first: crushing the leaner man into his chest, snaking an arm around his waist and cupping a scruffy-from-hours-on-planes-and-in-airports cheek in his broad, warm palm.

"Eames," Arthur says, a note of anxiety in his voice, but Eames swallows it up, kisses him soundly, and the warmth burns between them unbearably. Arthur hasn't brushed his teeth in twenty hours and the last thing he ate had pickles on it; and Eames is exhausted and would dearly love a shower. But he doesn't stop kissing Arthur, props him up against the door, and Arthur hisses and bites Eames' lower lip at the sudden jab of the doorknob into his side.

"Eames," Arthur says again, trying hopelessly to disentangle himself, "hang on."

Eames, quite unwillingly, pulls back, drinks him in: swollen, wet lips and pink cheeks and mussed hair. Hazy eyes, dark with lust. God.

"We'll do this," he whispers, "But I'd like a shower first. And maybe a nap. I'm – not really in top form right now."

Eames laughs softly, gives him a soft, chaste kiss that somehow starts on his cheek and lingers at the corner of his mouth. "I've waited this long for that hot little arse of yours," he murmurs beneath Arthur's ear, palming the muscular curve of Arthur's bum as the point-man starts and flushes. "I can wait another fifteen minutes."

Eames slips into the shower after Arthur, who pretends not to be half so pleased for the company. Lost in the heat and the smell of shampoo and Arthur's rough, calloused hands scrubbing the suds over his chest and back and hips, they trade slow, soapy kisses and fog up the bathroom. In between shy glances at Eames' body, catching on his chest and straying often to his hips and the half-hard prize beneath, Arthur slides his fingertips over the dark tattoos and the grooves between Eames' bones and muscles.

After, towelling each other off with slow, lazy motions, pink and clean and loose, they tumble into bed, burrow beneath the covers, coil around each other languidly and kiss and kiss and kiss.

And then they fall asleep.

* * *

Eames wakes up to a stretch of warmth along his side, to breath on his neck, to long fingers loosely twined in the shaggy hair at the nape of his neck.

He opens his eyes to Arthur's flushed, close face, shifting nearer, asleep, even as Eames moves away.

Eames trails his fingertips along Arthur's bare shoulder, skates over the hollows and ridges of shoulder blade and spine, the clean line of his neck. He slowly becomes conscious of something else and, grinning wickedly, slips his hand beneath the covers to curl his fingers around the hot, slick length of Arthur's very awake cock.

"You never said," Eames laughs, half a whisper, against Arthur's cheek. "I'd no idea you were so... _substantial_ in the mornings."

Arthur murmurs something unconscious and unintelligible, but it morphs into soft whimpers and low moans as Eames moves his hand, gets an arm beneath the point-man's lower back and pulls him close, strokes long and slow, dry friction, thumbing the wet tip with slow circles.

By the time Eames has slid down the length of Arthur's body, hair static against the sheets, and taken Arthur hot and pulsing into his mouth, the point-man is fully awake. He's arching into it, burying his fingers in Eames' hair, and Eames grips the narrow cage of his hips and presses with the flat of his tongue, tightens his wet lips, works his throat and draws out the most gorgeous sounds from Arthur. High music; quiet, impatient breaths of sound; more perfect than any practiced orchestra, more precious than a streetlight serenade. Rare, unscripted, singular.

"Eames, god, _Eames_," Arthur hisses, and he's gonna have bruises in a few hours from the heavy, blunt fingers gripping his skin.

When he's finished, and Arthur is undone and flat on his back, Eames looks on – painfully hard, agonizingly hard, but loving the way Arthur looks too much to disrupt the splay of limbs, the beautiful red flush of chest and neck and ear. The way his breath comes harsh and ragged, like he's just run a marathon or fought for his life or been on the receiving end of a blowjob from the most perfect lips to exist in this hemisphere.

Only then Arthur is fumbling in the bedside table, withdrawing a small square of foil and a tube, and Eames distinctly remembers that he hadn't purchased either.

"Here," Arthur murmurs, fingers shaking, and he's just gotten sucked off, just been taken the fuck apart by it, and he still manages to look at Eames shyly through his dark, sleepy lashes. "C'mon."

Eames tilts his head thoughtfully. Wonders at the warmth in his belly, in his lungs, how the way he feels is like a wrecking ball to the gut, bowling him over, impossible to withstand.

He grabs a pillow – his, he recalls distantly – and props it up under Arthur's hips, resting his fingertips briefly on Arthur's pelvis. He unscrews the cap on the lube, slides a wet finger teasingly between Arthur's legs before sliding it in.

When the body beneath his goes stiff, nervous and expectant, Eames slows down. Tells him everything he's doing, everything that'll happen.

"I'll make you feel so good, Arthur," he whispers.

He does.

As far as first times go, it's the best Eames has ever had. With previous lovers, there'd been at least some slight awkwardness at the beginning: just two people still getting used to how the other moved. But this was – notably different. Nothing with how they were moving, but. Everything with how Eames felt.

Because there's never been anybody like Arthur. With a sinking feeling, Eames is suddenly sure there never will be again.

Later, Arthur will confess: _I don't like being... new at something. But it – I was..._ He'd smiled, shy and blissfully pleased. _Thank you, Eames._

Much later, Eames won't be able to look him in the eye without remembering the shape of his mouth as he came, or the way his breath hitched and caught. He'll tease Arthur mercilessly, like a little boy with a crush. He won't be able to help it.

Much later, Eames won't be able to sit through Arthur's engagement party without getting spectacularly drunk, pretending this isn't his life, pretending Arthur isn't marrying someone who isn't Eames. He won't be able to help that, either.

* * *

Eames meets Joe Couric the next morning at a Starbucks just off of Orchard. Today the man is dressed in khaki slacks and a lavender button-up, the most vibrant Eames has seen him so far.

"Should I order my coffee black and bitter with disappointment, or sweet and creamy with a cause for celebration?"

The thing about Joe is that he's deadpan as shit. Excruciatingly serious. Eames cracks a smile.

"Non-fat milk and Splenda," Eames assents. "As a tentative yes."

After they've ordered – Joe actually gets Earl Gray with soy creamer, inexplicably, while Eames settles on a Chai latte – his employer says, "Tentative is not acceptable. I need someone for the long haul."

"And I can probably oblige," Eames says bluntly. "But I need to settle some things back home first."

Joe cocks his head to the side, the lights catching on the smooth skin of his face and jaw before twisting and dipping into the scarred ridges near his mouth. "London?"

"No. Paris."

"Ah." They are silent for a moment, sipping their respective not-coffees, and eventually Joe adds, "Loose ends? Romantic entanglements?"

"Not as exciting as all that," Eames murmurs, wishing it was.

"Well, before you go," Joe says, fingers splayed idly on the table, "I'd like you to teach me extraction. Just the basics. Maybe I'll get the hang of it while you're gone."

Eames looks at him for a long while. He wants to say: you can't do it on your own. He wants to say: you shouldn't go under by yourself under any circumstances, not this early in the game and actually not at all.

Wants to say, There are so many things that can go wrong if you're by yourself.

Instead he says, "All right," because _no_ is a bad way to start a long-term professional relationship.

They get a cab to wherever Joe's been holing up, which turns out to be a large but nondescript house in a bright, upper-middle-class neighborhood. There is very little furniture inside, despite the affluent exterior, and absolutely no evidence of anyone else residing here.

Eames hooks up the PASIV device in the kitchen, motioning for Joe to join him on the floor and slouch against the cabinets.

"So here's your first lesson," he says as he injects the man with Somnacin. Once Joe's under, he does himself. As always, he's out before the syringe clatters to the floor.

He sets up a very simple room, four walls and a floor and a ceiling, and holds it. Joe's in the corner, dressed in – circus regalia, or something. Ringmaster. Creative black tie, coattails, some kind of bright tophat.

Eames glances down, surprised and unnerved. He's dressed as a – court jester. Mardi-gras style.

On one level, he supposes it's kind of fitting. On a whole other level, he's trying to scrap together Couric's personality profile from the dossier, trying to recall what Nash was saying, trying not to be horrified if Joe turns out to be a fucking lunatic.

But nothing else is out of the ordinary, and if the wallpaper has little elephants and and horses doing tricks and some pretty interesting naked acrobatics going on – in the style of Alphonse Mucha, no less – Eames doesn't let it distract him.

Joe is looking very distracted, however, and a bit disoriented. So Eames starts his explanation with the subconscious, and shaping the world, and what the architect does. He answers every bizarre question Joe has about Somnacin and dosages and possible medical interactions (again, this sets off alarm bells).

But nothing out of the ordinary happens, and Eames is able to cover projections quite thoroughly before they wander out a bit into a neighborhood that is more or less just like the neighborhood from one of Eames' alias's childhoods.

Which is to say, Eames basically makes shit up as he goes.

The first time they die, Joe stares up at the ceiling for a long time, breathing hard through his nostrils, lips white and pressed tightly together. Eames would feel bad, except - it's necessary, to know. To prepare. Since it's inevitable, since it always happens at some point.

"Jesus," Joe says faintly, eyes tracking the light spilling in from the window. "What time is it?"

"About five after," Eames supplies, standing and stretching. His shoulder creaks as he gets up, and he's uncomfortably reminded of his age. Thirty-two isn't the end of the world, but – he's not getting any younger.

Eames never thought he'd actually get _old_.

"Five after what," Joe asks, still a bit dazed, and the forger offers his hand, pulls him up.

"Two," Eames says, smiling.

That earns him a blank, hazel-eyed stare. "But we - christ, Eames, we went – we started at two. Maybe five 'til. How can this be."

"Like I said," Eames smiles placidly. "Time works differently. For starters, it's all in your mind."

"I see," Joe says, but he really doesn't seem to.

They work at it for the next four days or so, going over the basic three-man operation, working in extraneous support, and then - Eames' favorite, naturally – they branch into auxiliary options.

"You shouldn't need a forger for every job, just a good extractor and someone running point who isn't a complete idiot," he begins, and Joe listens raptly the entire time.

By the time he leaves for his flight, he feels safe enough leaving the man alone with the silver PASIV briefcase; Joe Couric is not a stupid man. But he's quite possibly possessed of incurable curiosity, which might be worse. And he hasn't really taken to dreaming, or demonstrated any other latent talent that might help him out of a tight spot if he gets carried away with exploring his own psyche.

So maybe Eames is being irresponsible. Well, whatever, it's out of his hands for the time being. And Couric's paid him well for his time, so Eames figures he'll touch base over the next few days and go from there. Really, how much can happen to a man while he's sleeping safely in his home?

Eames chooses not to think about this at all. He knows exactly what can happen.

He sleeps the whole flight to Paris, and doesn't drink, and hardly flirts at all with the brown-haired, doe-eyed attendant who fluffs his pillow.

* * *

Eames expects Arthur at the flat tomorrow, probably at some ungodly hour of the morning, since tomorrow is Friday and Friday is when he told Arthur he'd get in.

He is not, however, altogether surprised to see Arthur waiting for him outside the airport on Thursday afternoon, wearing an old brown leather coat that sags on his lean frame and checking his watch with a creased brow. His black Lexus is parked in the pickup lane behind him, but not one of the many upstanding traffic control officers seems to be bothering him about it.

"Afternoon," Eames hails, a fair attempt at hearty, but he sighs when Arthur jerks his head wordlessly toward the car.

Eames climbs into the passenger side and Arthur, who is possibly touched in the head, drives like a lunatic. It's not something he restricts to dreams. He probably suffers from road rage.

"Good to see you, too," Eames says lightly.

"You're late. Also, shut up," Arthur snaps, and if it's not the most uncomfortable twenty minutes Eames has ever spent in silence with another person, it certainly makes the top five.

The only time Arthur seems to hesitate is when they pull into the parking garage, and his hand hovers over the security box keypad.

"Did you," he begins, and doesn't look at Eames.

"The code's the same, Arthur," Eames sighs wearily. Arthur's eyes twitch in his direction before his fingers fly over the number pad, well-practiced. He still knows it by heart.

They ride the lift up, like they've done a thousand times before, only the last time they were together in here was two years ago. Eames' eyes fall unavoidably on the slight dent in the metal panelling.

Arthur is looking at it, too. "Is that where my head – "

"Yeah," Eames says, mouth dry. "That would be where."

Three years ago, if you'd have asked Eames what he thought about walking down this hall with an Arthur who wasn't actually his lover, that he has never actually got over, he'd have punched you in the face. Three years ago, he never saw this coming. When you are happy with someone, you never do.

Maybe that's the secret. Maybe you just have to assume, when you're happy, that eventually circumstances will be such that _you are never happy again_.

"So the code," Arthur begins tentatively as Eames shuts the door behind them and makes a beeline to the liquor cabinet.

"Would you quit bothering about the bloody security code?" he snaps, irritated and vulnerable.

"Why didn't you change it?" Arthur storms on, implacable.

"Oh my god," Eames says, rounding on him. "Is this really what we're going to talk about?"

"It's a valid question, Eames!" Arthur says, much closer than he was a moment ago, and Eames takes an involuntary step back. Arthur looks confused at this, but then he just looks angry. "Well?"

"What would be the point? You know every bleeding thing anyway." Eames turns around to rifle for a brandy snifter and a goddamn bottle opener, and he does _not_ think about how Arthur's name is still on the deed, or how he'd lain awake every night for six months hoping that the emotionally oblivious arsehole would come _home_, would slip quietly into bed and kiss Eames breathlessly awake, and – it's not like Eames wanted an apology, or – or _any_thing, _fuck_, he'd just wanted Arthur _back_.

Eames pours a healthy shot and turns to look at Arthur, who is – unexpectedly – staring at him with a mix of, of something. Something like regret. Something like chagrin.

"I meant," Arthur says softly, "just that it's not – I mean, it's a safety issue. You should have it changed every few months."

"Oh," Eames says weakly, and drinks.

"To be fair," Eames says, "we never changed it."

He only slightly emphasizes the _we_.

"Right, well," Arthur mumbles, hand catching in his hair as he combs it back off his forehead. "It had sentimental value."

"Right," Eames echoes, and pours another. The bottle clinks clumsily against the lip of the glass. He drinks more slowly after this.

The story with the code is that, essentially, it's a date. Not their first kiss, or the day they met. Just when they left together. When they – when they became partners. A sequence of numbers meaning nothing to anyone else, no one's birthday or deathday or anniversary. It's nothing they celebrate. It's just something Eames wanted to keep: him kissing Arthur after he'd been absolved of his duties, him asking Arthur to – to _run away_ together with Eames, and Arthur saying _yes_ and _please_.

Arthur watches him for a long time, and for the span of several heartbeats Eames is afraid he'll - well, that he'll leave all over again. Like that would be anything new, or anything that should still hurt him.

But instead, Arthur shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook by the door. The second one to the left, old habit.

Then he wanders over to the couch, eyes searching the apartment, tracking the changes. There are hardly any – only what Arthur took with him. Little enough.

He sits down bonelessly on the couch, wrists crossed over his knees, and Eames makes him a gin and tonic and sets it on the coffee table. He doesn't really trust himself to sit beside Arthur – Eames is still, at the heart of him, only a thief; and so he can't keep his hands to himself under any circumstances, not near _treasure_ – so he settles into the loveseat across from the Arthur and drinks.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you on the phone," Arthur says quietly. "I was... angry."

"I gathered," Eames says around his brandy glass.

"I just... You said we were a team," Arthur says, and looks up at him. "I thought that – I thought that meant," he says, and pauses. He tries a different tack. "You just caught me off guard. That's all. One minute you're beating the shit out of Nash because he almost gets me and Cobb killed, and the next you go off to work with him, and I just." Arthur sighs, shakes his head. "I didn't know what to think, Eames."

"I can see how my actions may have seemed contradictory," Eames concedes.

"Right," Arthur says, and sips his gin. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and Eames should very much like to kiss it. But he can't, he's not _allowed_. And also there is apparently a level of hell where you're forced into a flat you used to share with your ex-lover, who sits in front of you with all the things you loved about him andyou can't even fucking _touch _him, what the _fuck_.

"Also I was worried," Arthur says, blinking at him. "So tell me about this job."

"He asked me to be his partner," Eames says, and maybe he's a bit matter-of-fact, since Arthur sputters and stares and sort of spills some of his drink.

"_What_?"

"He wants to take over and he can't do it alone."

"Take – take _over_, what – " Arthur stares hard at his drink, and then at Eames' hands, expression pinched. Then he looks at Eames' face. "You said he wasn't connected to any of the families."

"He's not. He means to start with Odessa, and once that's secure he'll probably work his way up the chain." Eames looks at his stockingfeet, studies where the fabric is worn near his toes. Aggravates the small hole he's slowly been working open.

"He's trying to do a hostile takeover of the city's mob families," Arthur says, voice hitching in wonder and – and exasperation, or fear. Something. "By _himself_?"

"Well," Eames points out. "There's me."

"Except that there _isn't_ you," Arthur says in a tone that brooks no argument, except. Once Eames gets his teeth into something...

"I don't know," he mentions. "I've never been a crimelord before." It sounds different, aloud. It sounds like something he could actually do.

Arthur looks panicked for a second, but he shakes his head and swallows about half of his gin and tonic, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

"So now that's out of the way," Eames says, tilting his head, and Arthur sighs, long and low.

"There's something else," he says, voice tight, "I need – can I – can I stay here tonight?"

* * *

Eames gets the full story over the course of two more gin and tonics and three more half-glasses of brandy.

"So Ariadne broke up with me," Arthur begins.

And it's like this: Ariadne takes a few days to herself – holes up in a hotel to draw for half a week, really focus on her mazes which, okay, Arthur can understand. It wasn't really awkward, being in each other's space all the time, but it was maybe a little quiet or like they didn't ever talk while doing their own thing. Arthur was in and out, home as much as he could be, and for awhile Ariadne was finishing up her degree – but maybe Arthur has made some assumptions without consulting her.

"Well. Decisions. If you want to be technical," he amends.

So Ari comes home after her little hiatus (Eames gets a sick feeling in his gut; he knows why she was alone in a hotel room for three days) and Arthur looks over her sketches.

"They were great, Eames," he says helplessly. "But I just – I just told her they were good. And then I said that I thought – well, I thought maybe she could get out of the business. Once we were married."

"Once we started a family," Arthur continues.

Eames watches him bleakly.

"Since – after what happened with Mal."

Arthur's looking soft around the edges, lovely for all his misery; and Eames licks his lips contemplative, but arrests the action as soon as he caches Arthur staring at his mouth.

"Go on, then," Eames encourages, unnerved.

"Eames," Arthur says slowly, "She said she didn't want children. Ever. And that," he pauses, face pained, eyes screwed tightly shut as he presses his palms into the tired sockets. "That she'd had an abortion. She didn't even _talk_ to me, Eames. I didn't even know she was – she didn't even _ask_ me," and there's a muffled sound like a sob, and Eames thinks, Hell. There's nothing he wants more in the world than to reach out, touch Arthur's face or shoulder or hair.

He doesn't, though.

"Arthur," he begins carefully, but Arthur shakes his head, face still in his hands.

"She said _I_ didn't want kids either," He chokes out. "She said I didn't – she said I didn't want any of this, that I just thought it was – I don't even know," he mutters, miserable.

"Proper. Forumlaic," Eames exhales, mostly to himself. But Arthur looks up at him sharply, and his eyes are wet and unfocused.

"What?"

"It seemed like the thing to do. So you went with it."

Arthur doesn't say anything for a time, but eventually Eames breaks the silence.

"Ariadne's only been a proper architect for a year or so, Arthur," he tells him. "She loves it. What if someone asked you to give up what you love for a family you don't want?"

"Jesus fucking christ," Arthur spits. "God. How many times am I gonna _fuck this up_. I couldn't – I couldn't get it right with _you_ and I can't get it right with _her_ and," Arthur looks at him blearily, lowering his hands. "You know she doesn't even like the _house_, Eames," he whispers harshly, shoving at the tears on his cheeks. "I said I'd go somewhere for a few days so we could think about it, but she said – she said she didn't want to be alone in that house."

Eames, still stuck on the, 'couldn't get it right with _you_,' gets up and goes into the kitchen again, hardly unsteady at all. He puts the kettle on and, as an afterthought, makes a pot of coffee. He probably hasn't made coffee since – well, fuck, talk about irrelevant.

"I don't want to be there either," comes Arthur's soft voice, just behind him, and Eames' hands shake slightly as he pours water into the coffee maker. "Not by myself."

"Well, the flat's just as much yours as mine," Eames says thoughtlessly. "Stay as long as you like."

"She should've told me," Arthur murmurs listlessly, oblivious, and he's standing so close that Eames can feel his body heat through their clothes. He's leaning unconsciously against the forger's arm. "I can't – this is terrible, Eames."

Eames fights his impulse to pull away, but he also fights his impulse to pull Arthur to him, press against his face, whisper _shhh, it'll be okay, love_ and kiss him until he forgets, until it's three years ago and they're together and they're happy again.

Obviously this is unrealistic and silly.

So he settles for just sort of squaring up, and Arthur bows his head and rests it against Eames' clavicle. And Eames just tilts his head back and says, to the ceiling, ignoring the soft downy tickle of Arthur's hair against his jaw: "Is it irreconcilable?"

"Well," Arthur laughs brokenly. "I maybe got a bit ignorant." He shudders faintly, and Eames just – stands there.

"Oh." Eames murmurs. He means to push Arthur back a bit, but what actually happens is: he settles his hands heavily on those bony shoulders and can't really manage much else.

"I started to ask about – the sex," Eames snorts, here, incredulous, since Arthur is an idiot. "And she just – she stamped her foot, she was so pissed." He gives a sharp, mirthless laugh and turns his face into Eames' neck. Inhales deeply. When he exhales, it raises chills all along Eames' spine.

"It would've been funny," Arthur mumbles, "if we'd been two completely different people, who were happy together, who were having a fight that wasn't a breakup fight." He appears to contemplate this. And then he says, slowly and at length, "I'm... I was really fucking stupid."

"No," Eames says, shaking his head and sliding Arthur a mug of steaming coffee with two sugars, black and sweet as sin. "You just didn't understand each other. Or maybe she understood you, and you're just an oblivious fuck."

Arthur nods, eyes desolate, doesn't crack even half a grin.

Eames says, "Let's crash for the night, yeah? You can go home in the morning, if you like. Or you can stay. Whatever you need to do, Arthur." Eames needs sleep, is what. It was a long fucking flight to take, and then to just walk into – this _mess_.

"Eames," Arthur says, sipping his coffee and leaning against the counter, "She had the drawings. She really did go to the hotel. And she didn't check into any clinics nearby."

Because of course he checked. Eames doesn't look at him.

Arthur says, "She doesn't know any drug dealers."

"Well, I appreciate that you think so highly of me," he says flippantly, since it's inevitable at this point. He feels Arthur tense beside him, and then – strangely – relax. "Though I could be considered such. If you wrote off all the other brilliant things I am in addition."

"She called you?" Arthur asks. But it isn't really a question, just an affirmation.

"She did," Eames says. There isn't really any point in lying. "You can sleep on the couch if you like."

His dick is saying, You can climb on top of me if you like. Eames hates himself just a bit more every minute.

Arthur is saying, "You're supposed to offer the bed to your guest and take the couch for yourself."

Eames decides his life is over, but his stupid mouth says, "It's a big bed. We can share it."

He doesn't _mean it_, except he does, of course he does. And he was maybe trying to make a joke, but maybe it was in poor taste and _fuck _–

But Arthur says, "I know it is." And drinks his coffee.

Says, "Okay."

Eames' tea sets on the counter, untouched.


	4. They burned the churches up in Harlem

The quiet extends out for what seems like hours, though is really probably only a minute or two. Arthur is sipping his coffee, eyes half-lidded, a kind of bemused, humorless half-smile on his lips. Eames stares openly, and he has no idea what to do with his hands, and his mouth is dry despite the perfectly serviceable mug of tea, which is going to waste, useless. Cooling rapidly on the counter.

Eventually Arthurs sets down his empty cup, and Eames hopes he doesn't look half so hungry as he feels. Like he's been slowly starving to death, maybe for years, and he hadn't even realized until this – this bloody _impossibility_ has drifted just into his reach, transient, without depth or form, and maybe – maybe it wouldn't be so _bad_. To just take what he goddamn wants for once. Even if it's only ever going to be once. Even if it might ruin things.

Like everything hasn't already gone to shit.

Maybe, after two years, all that fallout from their _natural-_bloody_-disaster _of a breakup is finally starting to settle.

So Arthur doesn't say anything, but he kind of tilts his head, and Eames shoves his hands into his pockets, tightly fisted. Clears whatever pathetic expression of lust and longing and loneliness and _bloody fucking shit, hell, how could I have known, I'm not _whole_ without you_ off his face. And he follows Arthur into what used to be their bedroom.

Arthur doesn't turn the light on, and Eames doesn't know what this means, or if it means anything, or if maybe they've degenerated to the level of anonymous sex and Arthur doesn't even want to look at him, what the fuck, they used to be in fucking _love_ – except then Arthur's fumbling for the lamp on the bedside table, and he misses a few times. And if Eames hadn't been so wrapped up in his own bloody fucking circle-jerk of self-loathing, he might've noticed.

Arthur is drunk.

"Arthur," Eames says, voice pale in the semi-darkness since Arthur's managed the lamp and the dim light is hazy and half-glowing as it soaks into the point-man's smooth skin.

"Yeah," he murmurs, quiet and noncommittal, and Eames knows there's something he should say here, but. Arthur's started peeling off his sweater, and his undershirt comes off with it, ending up in a clumsy heap on the floor, and there's Arthur's back: lean and curving, light dispersing like numberless twinkling solar systems over his flesh. He's carved of highlight and shadow, gilded, severity gone silky-soft at the edges.

Eames inhales sharply. He's never wanted anything half so much.

Except that he's always wanted Arthur, it's always fucking been Arthur. Even when he'd _had_ Arthur.

Arthur's fumbling with his belt by the time Eames gets over himself and over to _him_, and maybe putting his hand on Arthur's bare shoulder wasn't the best idea since the shock of contact jolts the forger's heart into his throat. The way the point-man tenses, then relaxes into his touch. The way his bones shift beneath the layers of tissue and muscle as he moves his hands.

Eames wonders, vaguely, when he turned into such a fucking teenager.

"Hang on a minute," he says gently. "Arthur."

Arthur looks at Eames over his shoulder, and maybe Eames needs to get laid or something, this can't be his life, he can't be destroyed by _one fucking look_.

Eames does something that feels completely natural, muscle memory right down to the rush of blood in his head. He fits against Arthur's back, hooks an arm around that bare waist, splays his hand over the smooth angles of hip and belly even as he trails his fingertips down a lean forearm. Links their fingers together. Speaks with a gesture all the wordless things he's said before, long ago, tries to communicate something that might last.

He presses his face into the side of Arthur's neck and breathes him in; for just a moment, it's like no time has passed at all. For just a moment, the universe is slow-spinning and perfect, Eames is happy again, and nothing can ever hurt him. Since no matter how bad it gets, there's still Arthur, strong and capable, competent to a fault. In his arms and devoutly lethal and just enough of an asshole to mean it, when he says Eames is his; _belonging_, and everyone else can just fuck off.

Except Arthur isn't his, and hasn't been for years, and even as he's relaxing back into Eames' broad chest and tipping his head so they're cheek-to-cheek, turning his face in so they're breathing in the same air, it doesn't matter. It _can't_ matter. If it matters, if he _means_ it...

"You've had hardly a thing, darling," Eames murmurs, voice lower and rougher than he intends. "Are you quite in control of your faculties?"

"Low tolerance. Don't drink much anymore," Arthur murmurs, exhaling through his nose. The warmth of it ghosts over Eames' ear, sends shivers lancing down his spine. "Not since."

"Was I really so terrible an influence, Arthur," he laughs, low and surprised, and when Arthur starts swaying in his arms, he sways right along: a slow-dance in a dim room, with no music but their matched lungs and no rhythm but the uneven pace of their hearts. Arthur's body radiating heat, Eames' body soaking it up.

It's all very high school.

"Eames," Arthur says pointedly. "We are _mind criminals_."

Says, "All of us are a terrible influence."

Says, after a bit, "And anyway. It's not – it's like – I wouldn't play _blackjack_. Either. Since."

Eames coughs quietly, thinks about maybe letting go of Arthur, of putting him to bed and then passing out on the couch. This proximity is starting have a noticeable physiological effect on him. "What?"

"I wouldn't play cards," Arthur sighs, leaning heavily into Eames. It's a perfect weight, exactly where he ought to be, and Eames despairs. "With anyone else. Has to be you. _Mr_. Eames."

Arthur is nonsensical and loose, soft and bleary and gorgeous, rolling words over his tongue in a terribly, horribly distracting manner, and Eames finally gets it together enough to guide him to the bed. Gently nudge him down onto the mattress, tug the blankets out from under his arse to tuck up around Arthur's chin. It's an intimate gesture, but it adds some distance between them. A barrier.

Okay. Deep breathes. He can fucking handle this.

"I just wanted to be in the same place you were," Arthur mumbles, abstracted and absent. "I don't care where anyone else is. Also," he trails off, squinting. "Sit down, Eames." He sounds tired, and looks tired, and Eames should be tired, too. Only he's suddenly wide-awake.

"'Also'...?" He asks, and he can't help it, he can't, he _tries_: he reaches out, brushes his fingertips over Arthur's forehead, pushes the brown curls of hair out of his face. Tangles his fingers a bit in the silk of Arthur's hair.

"Sit _down_," Arthur repeats, and Eames does. The sharp hip knocking presently against his own is simultaneously comforting and alarming. Also, Eames is apparently a crazy person who wants what he can't have and rejects anything he is given, even when he wants that, too.

"Also," Arthur whispers, quiet and insistent, "no one mixes a drink like you do."

"Of course they don't," Eames says softly. And then he gets it, just a bit.

"You drink around me," he says slowly. "Because I'm a fun drunk. And... you, contrary to popular belief and expansive study, also like to have fun? Arthur?"

Arthur snorts, only it's almost a bit of a giggle, and Eames is betrayed his own small half-smile.

"Yeah," Arthur replies. He waves a hand ineffectually. "Everyone else is just," he says, pauses. Picks back up. "Just not you."

"Oh." Eames offers. He closes his eyes, tries to put this together in his head, tries to look at this in any way that won't destroy him. He's always been so careful, his whole life, to assume that – that people aren't actually confessing. That you never actually get what you want. It's the only way he can hang on to reality, instead of constructing some beautiful, self-deceptive lie-world where Arthur might still conceivably _love him_. Where he's drunk and he's _saying it_.

"Wait, hang on," Eames says, appalled. "You haven't played a game of cards in _two years_?"

Arthur reaches over and takes Eames' hand. "Can we please talk about this?" He doesn't mean blackjack. His voice is worn, sad. Lonely as anything Eames has ever heard, and then Arthur is propping himself up on his elbows and struggling just a bit with the blankets.

"I don't know what you mean," Eames says stoically. Or, he tries, but – Arthur with his bare chest and bare eyes, direct and close and dark with scrutiny, slightly unfocused with gin and – andarousal. Eames can absolutely recognize this.

"God_damn_ it," Arthur hisses, low under his breath. "How many fucking times do I – do I have to _throw myself at you_, fuck, how can you – how can we – "

It's like a spear of ice lancing through his gut, twisting deep and freezing him from the inside out. That's how it feels – like everything's gone cold beneath his hot, tight skin. "I'd hardly say you've been throwing yourself at me," he whispers, words slow and gentle as his mind furiously tries to work out what Arthur could possibly be talking about.

"I thought," Arthur says, anchoring Eames with their linked hands, reaching up with his other one to grip the forger's neck, pull him close, look hard into his eyes, forever the immovable object. "Sometimes I think you're over me. Sometimes I think you just, you just don't give a shit, and I'm fine, I _am_, I can live with – with this, if you don't, if you," but then Arthur is kissing him.

Everything evaporates.

* * *

The problem is, when Cobb and Mal got engaged, Arthur was really fucking depressed. Eames was still in the making-out-in-abandoned-hallways-and-closets stage with him, which, really, does anyone ever grow the fuck up, it would've been nice to get laid – but. Cobb and Mal go on their honeymoon, and when they come back, Arthur is a bit listless and a bit despondent and he looks so fucking lonely all the time, and Cobb and Mal are in their own little marital bliss bubble, and – well, there really isn't a whole lot going on.

So Eames takes a vacation, except it's actually just time off for a freelance job in Budapest, and he takes Arthur with him. So Arthur can get his mind off things, to have something to do, because if Arthur is in love with Cobb and that's – that's where all this shit is coming from, then. Then Eames wants to do something for him. Eames more or less probably knows what it's like, to love someone who loves someone else. Maybe.

Arthur is extraordinarily pleased. After a day or two, he already knows more about the mark – their employers – the men who own their shitty temp flat – the local language and culture – than Eames does. Even if his accent is rubbish.

He's energized, and he's happy, and he's brutally competent, and Eames is just glad he's not – not moping around anymore.

Also he doesn't mind having Arthur to himself, since it's entirely possible that Eames is a jealous, possessive individual who's just really, really good at compartmentalizing. So while he respects Dom Cobb and is sincerely happy for him, and trusts the man more than he trusts almost anyone else in the business, there's a small part of him that viciously hates the fact that Cobb getting married depresses Arthur. The same part of him that gets sick with jealousy, wroth with it.

When they get back, though, everything is better. Arthur, who'd been shy and basically living with Eames for a month (but not living, unfortunately, In Sin), doesn't act like someone with a broken heart. And he's a really terrible actor, you always know exactly how he feels, so. He's got to be sincere. Arthur has no choice but to be sincere. The world of theatre sighed in collective relief when he became a career criminal, instead of (dis)gracing the stage.

Eventually Mal gets pregnant, and Cobb is absolutely mental about it, and Arthur and Eames are present when Philippa is born. Mal doesn't scream or cry or anything, just holds Cobb's hand tight, white-lipped and flushed, and Arthur holds Eames' hand in the observation room.

And then Eames is released from his below-board SIS dealings, and Arthur is discharged (or _isn't_) from the US military and they go off to start their glamorous life of crime.

Three years later, Mal dies and Arthur leaves.

* * *

Eames braces his weight, suspended over Arthur, in their old bedroom.

Arthur is insistent and hot beneath him, gripping Eames by the shoulder, elbow, hip – ever-shifting, and _tight_, like he's afraid Eames will disappear. And it could be the brandy, or it could be the fucking disorienting _nostalgia_, but Arthur is sliding his tongue into Eames' mouth, rough and wanton and clumsy with need, and then his hands are on Eames' face, smoothing over his cheeks, and he opens his eyes and tips his head back and stares at the forger's lips - and the room is spinning. And everything is perfect.

"God," Eames curses, and throws in the towel. Just gives up, gives in, he's only one bloody human in the face of – of _this_. "_Fuck_."

So Eames pulls messily at the covers, hands slipping down the flat expanse of Arthur's belly and fumbling with his trousers, even as Arthur picks at the buttons on Eames' shirt. It takes longer than it should, because Arthur will stop to spread his fingers greedily over each newly-exposed patch of skin, and Eames has to break the kiss to slide the flat of his tongue down the smooth, hard lines of Arthur's neck, dip in beneath his collar bones, the hollow of his throat, the salty stretch of sweat along his sternum as he finally manhandles Arthur's slacks down around his knees. Arthur struggles a bit, and Eames without preamble slips the dark-haired man's cock out of the slit in his boxers, takes him wholesale into his mouth.

"I – " Arthur manages, before it dissolves into a long, low moan. Eames goes fast, hot and wet, working his throat muscles around the heavy, smooth length; revelling in the weight of it on his tongue, the familiar ache in his jaw and the wet slide of flesh over his lips as Arthur helplessly bucks up into it.

It's flawless, everything: from the play of his fingers on Arthur's thighs to the way he nuzzles and inhales against that coarse patch of hair with each deep thrust, kissing and pressing his lips over the swollen head, everything feels and smells and _tastes_ exactly as it should. Like the last time he blew Arthur was two days ago instead of two years. By the time Arthur is writhing and laboring for breath beneath him, coming in long spurts, Eames is so hard he can't see straight.

"Jesus fucking christ," Arthur gasps, panting, and Eames is moving off of him, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist, but – then there's Arthur's hand, his iron grip on Eames' forearm, and he jerks the heavier man toward him, kisses him hard, licks his own come off Eames' smooth lips and says, brokenly,

"Do you have any condoms." He wriggles impatiently out of his boxers. They'll end up, probably, between somewhere between mattress and wall.

Eames shakes his head, _No_, tries to pull away.

"This can't happen," he says, voice hoarse and weak and not at all convincing, even to his own ears, and Arthur glares at him, angry, hurt. But then his lovely eyes fall to Eames' swollen mouth, and Eames can feel heat ignite all along his body as that dark gaze traces each tattoo, slips over the solid muscle of Eames' stomach. The painful and obvious bulge of his erection.

"Eames,' Arthur whispers, and fucking _hell_, his post-orgasm voice is _sex_, low and ridiculously rough. Everything Eames could ever think of, lust and longing, begging and bullying, sharp desire, greed. Love. It's all fucking there. "This is _already_ happening."

"I _can't_, Arthur, you don't – " But he stops when Arthur takes his face in his warm hands, pulls them together, nuzzles his cheek and fixes his teeth over Eames' earlobe.

"Is this really so hard," he whispers, stilted, thighs parting slowly so Eames is pressed between them. "Do you – hate the idea of being with me _so much_," Arthur murmurs harshly, and – and his voice breaks, here. And his cheeks are wet. Arthur's crying.

Arthur never cries.

"You don't _understand_," Eames says, and he can't help the tenseness of his body, the strain, the way his goddamn dick points at Arthur like a fucking divining rod, like water in the fucking desert. "You don't know what you fucking _do_ to me, Arthur, I," but Arthur is kissing him again, wet and salty, nipping at his lips enough that it hurts, and there's a rustle and a clatter and before Eames realizes it's from Arthur's hand in the bedside table, he's already produced a bottle of lube and a foil-wrapped package. Like he knows where they're kept, like he _lives here_, because he _did_. Once upon a time.

"Filthy liar," Arthur mutters against his mouth, and god, what Eames would fucking give for everything that's happening right now to _actually_ happen, in a universe where they wouldn't regret it immediately, or in the morning, or _during_, or in _three goddamn years_. Where they'd _never_ regret it. A world where they'd still be _together_.

"Those – those are old," Eames mutters, and Arthur kisses him a moment longer before the words hit home and he stops suddenly, falls back, shakes his head incredulously.

"Are you telling me, Mr. Eames, that you – that you haven't had anyone back here since – "

"That's exactly what I'm telling you." There's no way around it, so Eames doesn't even attempt the lie. But apparently this abysmal piece of information is sobering, because Arthur's looking less and less unfocused.

"Oh," the point-man says quietly, something warm and familiar and painfully unreadable welling up in his shining eyes. He wipes absently at his face, fingers slipping over the silvery tracks of moisture. "Come here, Eames," he says. Then he slides his hand down the forger's belly, beneath the popped button and undone zipper, and wraps his fingers lazily, almost wonderingly, around the thick length of Eames' cock.

"Arthur – "

"Shut _up_, Mr. Eames," is the growled response, and he works him slowly, dry, just long enough to where Eames really just – just needs to put his dick in something, something hot and wet, and then there's Arthur letting go of him, squeezing the lube messily onto his fingers, propping himself up and splaying his legs and working himself open with expert fingers.

Eames stares at him, palms tingling with the urge to slip a blunt thumb inside Arthur, stretch him open himself, but he maintains enough higher brain function to mutter, "Get a lot of practice with that, do you?"

"Every time I think about you," is the flat reply, but Arthur's face his flushed and he's chewing his lip and Eames gets a hand under his thigh, fingers sinking into the pale skin and sure to bruise, and he leans forward and slowly works the fingers of his other hand in over Arthur's own. He splays them, and Arthur makes small, pleased sounds, opens beneath Eames, curves into it.

"How often would that be," Eames whispers against the sweat behind Arthur's ear before following the words with as many kisses.

"Every – _ungh_ – every goddamn day, Eames," he sighs, legs tense, and Eames swallows and withdraws his hand and Arthur does, too, staring up at him with glazed eyes and wet lips. "Sometimes twice."

Eames fumbles with the old condom, fingers sliding from the lube, until Arthur makes a frustrated sound and hisses, "Forget about the fucking condom, Eames, I just – I want – " and Eames thinks, Fuck.

Thinks, This won't be the first bad decision I've made tonight.

So Arthur's shoving a pillow under his hips, just like their first time, and Eames is pressing the thick, blunt head of his cock into Arthur's arse, and it's still so fucking _tight_, and he holds his breath as he pushes in. Long, fluid stroke. Slow and deep. Arthur making a sound that's almost a scream and almost a cry, bit back and strained through his teeth. It sounds a bit like Eames' name.

"So you were thinking about me," he whispers, rocking back slowly, rocking in slowly, "since – since we..."

"Fuck you," Arthur pants, "yes. What part of," he makes a high, keening sound as Eames slides home again, equal parts arousal and frustration, "every _goddamn day_," and he shifts and pulls his legs up, flattening the backs of his thighs against Eames' chest, deepening the angle, "don't you _understand_."

Eames has his fingers on Arthur's hips, and he can't help it – he bucks forward, hard and fast, and Arthur's dragging his nails down Eames' arms and moaning, "Harder, _hard_er, _fuck_," and Eames does.

"You're," he says, voice catching in his throat, "a terrible fiancee, Arthur," and it's so good, so _good_, Arthur laid out beneath him, hot hot heat, the tight, slick ring of muscles clamped down around Eames' cock and the beautiful music of his voice, ringing through _their_ _flat_, and he'll have cuts on his forearms tomorrow, long gouges from Arthur's nails, and maybe they'll scar. So Eames can have them forever.

"Yeah," Arthur says, working his hips up, his eyes closed tightly and sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat, the dips and curves and ridges of his chest and belly, "but I was a hell of a boyfriend, Eames."

"You fucking were," he whispers, and then he's coming, and Arthur's coming again without Eames having to fucking _touch_ him this time, hadn't even realized he was hard again, and as it streaks messily over Eames' chest, he lays heavily on Arthur and bursts inside of him, comes and comes and fucking _comes_.

Arthur's legs settle loosely over Eames', tuck in around his knees, and they lay like that until they're sticky with drying ejaculate and their breathing has more or less evened out.

Eames smells sex, and Arthur, and clean sweat. He smells sheets that he hasn't slept in for a week, and he smells Arthur's aftershave and shampoo, and the fact that he apparently hasn't changed his bathing habits in _six fucking years_, he smells exactly like he did the day they fucking met, it just. It makes it worse, it makes it – it makes him think it's _possible_. It makes him want to scramble for his totem, palm it, read the inscription with his fingertips.

"Eames," Arthur says drowsily beneath him. He shifts a bit, makes room, and their chests are stuck together and it's kind of disgusting, and maybe Eames needs a shower.

"Yeah," he asks quietly, and doesn't look at Arthur – except he does, since Arthur gets his hands on Eames's face again. Leans up, kisses him. Soft and slow, speaking volumes, and maybe Eames doesn't know this language anymore – maybe he never did – but Arthur's being pretty fucking clear.

"I'm going to stay here tonight," he says, eyes deep and brown and sober. "And in the morning, you're going to fuck me into the mattress." He takes his sweet time saying this, draws it out, half a whisper and half a kiss, his lips never quite losing contact with Eames'. "And then we'll shower, and wash your filthy fucking sheets. And then we'll talk about this – this nonsense with Joseph Couric."

"Right," Eames says, and puts a bit of effort into getting the sheets in order while Arthur grabs someone's socks and mops up most of the come on his belly. Then he does Eames, only he smears it more than anything. But it's the thought that counts.

"Hey," Eames says as Arthur flings the really disgusting bit of clothing across the room, into the hamper, "those were my favorite pair."

"It's argyle," Arthur murmurs, settling against his neck. "They are gross."

"Well, _now_ they are."

"Now," Arthur says firmly, "they are slightly improved, yet remain unfit for public display."

What Eames remembers before they fall asleep:

The rise and fall of Arthur's chest. The solid presence of his body, curled in towards his own. The way his fingers trace smooth circles over Eames' arms and back, trail down his spine, squeeze at his thigh and palm his ribcage. The way he tucks his head up under Eames' neck, and the way Eames doesn't feel vulnerable, sleeping without boxers, his bits pressed comfortable and loose against Arthur's stomach.

Arthur whispering unintelligibly against Eames' neck, and Eames thinking he maybe understands.

* * *

He expects this morning to be terrible. Maybe they'll actually start the dumb row they should've just had when they first broke up, instead of terse, clipped words over thousands of miles and a phone call. Or maybe Arthur will just be gone, or maybe none of this has actually happened.

Or maybe all the bad parts have just been a dream, and Eames is going to wake up with Arthur drooling a bit on his pillow, starfished in the middle of the bed since he's always been kind of an arse like that.

Eames is basically wrong on all counts.

He gets up and the bed is empty, but still warm. There's water running in the bathroom, so Arthur's probably taking a shower.

Unless, the paranoid part of Eames mutters darkly, he left it on for you and got the hell out, and you won't know to look for him for another half hour.

Only then Arthur materializes, steam curling around him, pale with varying opacity against his flushed skin. Water dripping from his soft, slick hair. And he's looking at Eames like Eames is his favorite game and it's the last save point for a thousand years.

"I was given to understand," he says, cautiously hopeful, "that there would be some bother about a mattress and you getting fucked into it?"

Arthur, already hot from his shower, still flushes perceptibly as he licks his lips.

"I had a better idea," he grins, and it's kind of at half-mast as far as smiles go. Like whatever he had in mind's not as tempting as it was prior to this conversation. "I thought we could shower first. And then maybe you could fuck me over the kitchen table. And then maybe we could wash those sheets." His towel – Eames', really, but not really since it's _theirs_, he really can't help the feeling of community, of everything-that's-his-is-Arthur's, especially with the aforementioned dripping enticingly before him - is actually tied at a decent height around his waist, but every movement causes it to slip and shift, reveals the lean length of a thigh or the edge of a hip through the terrycloth folds.

"You're absurdly filthy," Eames remarks in dry tones, and it earns him a supercilious raised eyebrow for his trouble.

"Not anymore. Not like some filthy Englishman I may or may not choose to associate with." Arthur wanders over and kisses Eames without preamble, warm and wet and deep, but when Eames reaches for him, tries for more, he steps back. Just outside the circle of Eames' arms.

"Shower, Mr. Eames." Eames glances down, wrinkling his nose. He's certainly a bit crusty.

"Then... kitchen sex?"

"Then kitchen sex," Arthur smiles, and leaves him to it.

By the time Eames gets out of the shower, Arthur's made breakfast. It's pancakes. Eames isn't sure where the ingredients for pancakes came from, or the mashed bananas that Arthur mixes in, or the chocolate chips he sprinkles into the batter.

Or the maple syrup. He probably ought to accept that Arthur maybe did some grocery shopping.

Eames, after a cursory dry-off, doesn't really bother with a towel.

Arthur, lightly dusted with flour, doesn't seem to have bothered with much of anything, either.

He's carefully transferred their breakfast onto two plates, and it's about when he's set the still-hot pan in the sink that Eames shifts behind him, nudging his rock-hard dick teasingly between Arthur's arse cheeks.

"Table, Eames." Arthur arches back, turns his head and whispers raggedly against the forger's ear, and Eames happily obliges. He takes steers him over to the table by the hips, bends him slowly with a gentle, firm hand between those perfect shoulder blades until Arthur's face is pressed into the old wood. The little slag pushes up on his toes, slides the flat of one foot up Eames' calf, and Eames can hardly stand it, fumbling with the lube and forcing himself to slow down, to do this right. He works two fingers in, up to the first knuckle, and Arthur – well, he moans, but he tenses, too.

Eames leans forward, his chest and belly against Arthur's back, and murmurs "Hey, if you're – I mean, you can top. If you're still sore." He traces the shell of Arthur's ear with his tongue, just because, and Arthur relaxes by fractions. He's definitely going to have table bruises after this. Eames looks forward to kissing them.

"I've been topping for almost a goddamn year," Arthur snaps, bucking back against Eames' erection. "So if you could please just get on with fucking me," and it should cool things off a bit, this reminder of little Ariadne, of Arthur sleeping with her every night for the past eight months – but it doesn't, if anything it just makes Eames' cock ache, makes the tip bead with precome, the thought of Arthur unsatisfied for so long, wishing for the solid press of _Eames_ inside of him.

He slips a third finger in, and Arthur _whines_, and it's not enough but it's slick, and he holds Arthur open and forces himself through.

They're still for a minute, breathing roughly, Arthur flexed painfully around Eames, but he slowly starts to unclench and finally grinds out, "Fucking _move_," and Eames does.

It's faster than last night, rough and desperate, like now all the emotional rubbish is out of the way and they more or less know where they stand, well. They can get around to the fact that they've basically been going through withdrawal for a couple of years, like sex with each other is crack and they've been stealing TVs and shit, just to get their goddamn fix. Or what-the-fuck-ever.

By the time they finish, sweaty and sated and stacked over each other on the table, Eames has left some finger-sized marks on Arthur's ribs, reddening by degrees, and Arthur hums softly and tries to stand, sticking a bit to the table where it's dug into his hips.

There's come on the floor, which is really, really unsanitary, and there's also come sliding down Arthur's thighs, which is – okay, it's fucking _brilliant_.

He kisses the tiny mole next to Arthur's spine, skims his fingers along Arthur's back.

After they've more or less cleaned up, they eat breakfast. The pancakes are still warm, and the room smells like hot batter and coffee, and not like tea since the coffee is barbarically strong and masks the subtle, clean aroma of Earl Grey, and there's a sweet undertone of syrup to everything.

Also, as the room smells pervasively of sex, and the flat itself smells like it did when Arthur lived here with him before, it's pretty much the best breakfast ever.

Until Eames says, "Look, we really need to talk about this."

Then it devolves into maybe the worst breakfast ever, except Arthur is still naked, sitting at _their table_, with his ankle hooked over his knee.

He wipes his mouth with a paper napkin, looking studiously at his plate, and Eames needs to do something with his hands, so he gets up and takes the dishes to the sink and turns the water on as hot as it will go. He hopes Arthur isn't gone when he turns around. He kind of wants to check.

"Buggering bloody _fuck_," Eames swears when he burns his hands.

Arthur, who must've creeped up silently behind him like a creepy creeping creep, reaches over Eames' thick forearms and turns the cold tap on a bit. "What have we learned," he asks, not unkindly.

"Not to put my hands in burning fucking water," Eames says, sighing. He dumps some soap into the sink and waits a bit until the water is bearable, then starts scrubbing.

Wordlessly, Arthur falls in beside him and dries while Eames washes, and they're naked doing dishes and Eames can't figure out why his life isn't great right now.

"So when Mal died," Arthur starts quietly, blinking in the sunlight slating in through the blinds, and Eames remembers.

* * *

So when Mal dies, this is how Eames finds out:

He's coming home from the market with a bottle of red and Italian take-out. It's not their anniversary, or anyone's birthday; it's not any particular holiday that Eames is aware of. But Eames is happy, and they've been together for awhile, and he's comfortable and pretty much exactly where he wants to be in the world. It fills him up near to bursting with the desire to perform romantic gestures.

He'd left Arthur curled up on the couch with a blanket and a book on his lap, taking full advantage of the beautiful afternoon creeping in through the open window.

He comes home and it's still gorgeous outside, and their flat is bright and beautiful and practically glowing. It smells a bit like lilacs from the tree outside, and like the fresh bread Arthur was baking earlier since he got it into his head to do a domestic thing. But when Eames finds Arthur, he is standing next to the phone, which is dead – Eames can hear the dial-tone from the doorway – his knuckles are white, and his eyes are red. When he walks in, Arthur drops the headset with a loud clatter.

"Arthur," Eames says, but it comes out a whisper and he sets down his groceries and goes to him. "Arthur, what's happened?"

The point-man picks up the phone and sets it into the cradle. His hands are shaking, and he looks at Eames like nothing will ever be okay again, too vulnerable to touch, too shattered to hold. To sincere to be lied to, to be told, Everything will be okay, please, just stop looking at me like that.

"Mal's dead," he says simply, and it hits Eames like a lead pipe to the knee. Like he's lost his balance, like he can't walk straight, like his world's upset and angled beneath him and he can't get his footing.

"They think Dom did it. I've got to get him out of the States."

His voice isn't shaking. It's hard, clipped, and Eames recognizes this as Arthur closing down, pulling everything tightly together. Work mode. He'll let himself get angry, but he'll never let himself grieve. Not while he's still needed.

Eames swallows, mouth dry, and he says, "Contact his lawyer if you haven't already. I'll get the papers in order."

Between the two of them, they smuggle Dom out of the US, and Arthur doesn't touch Eames once for the entire hour it takes to get everything together. Everything about his posture is rigid and closed-off, and he keeps a careful distance. They fall into their work pattern, efficient and actually a pretty remarkable team, but without that usual underlying affection.

Eames gives Arthur his space. Later, he'll wonder if maybe he should've pressed the issue. Made Arthur talk about it. Tried to _keep_ him.

As it stands, however, Arthur is wordlessly packing a bag and Eames says, quietly, "How long will you be gone?"

Arthur, if possible, goes even tenser than before, tight, like his bones are cramped and made of iron.

"I don't know, Eames." He says. "I'll call you."

He doesn't kiss Eames when he leaves. There is no last embrace.

Three days go by. Three days of Eames surreptitiously keeping tabs on where Arthur is and what he's doing, three days of sleepless nights in an empty bed in an empty flat, three days of third-party information.

When Arthur finally calls, he sounds ragged and tired, like maybe he hasn't slept either. He sounds maybe a little angry, in that tight way he gets when he's panicky and miserable.

And he breaks Eames' heart, because he says, "I think we should go our separate ways for now."

When there is no response, Arthur sighs impatiently and says, "Eames? Fuck. Just," and his voice is so layered – there are so many inextricable emotions – that Eames doesn't even try.

"What are you thinking?" Arthur asks, at last.

"Nothing at all," Eames says, because the exact biological opposite of a truth is almost another truth. "You're quite right. It was a good run. Best of luck, Arthur, and give Cobb my best," and he hangs up before he can say anything really impossibly unfairly cruel like, How long have you been waiting to get the jump on him, or disgustingly desperate like: Arthur, please, you _can't_. This can't be it for us.

He half expects Arthur to call back, maybe. To explain things, or offer him closure, or argue. Maybe they can work it out. Maybe Arthur will fly home and they can have angry makeup sex and everything will be okay again.

But Arthur doesn't call, and Eames doesn't call, and he shuts up the flat after six months of fucking _waiting_. And he goes to Mombasa for a change of scenery, to get the fuck out of that lonely place he used to _love_, and spends listless evenings in seedy gaming dens.

For a long time he drinks, forges immigration papers, gambles, pickpockets, gambles, does a bit of illegal substance work with Yusuf, drinks, steals all manner of valuable and invaluable and worthless items, and drinks, and gambles, and drinks, and drinks, and drinks.

Until Cobb ferrets him out, lord knows how since Eames wasn't exactly advertising, and offers him a job too interesting to decline. Name-drops Arthur, and it takes everything Eames has to keep a straight face and a colorless voice. Even so, he isn't sure he succeeds.

* * *

Sunlight glares over half of Arthur's face, as he's turned to Eames, leaving the rest in transparent shadow.

Eames reaches out, traces the point-man's lips with a wet finger. Idle. Listening.

Arthur colors faintly, but doesn't look away. "Eames," he says, and swallows like his throat is tight. "When – when Dom told me what happened, I," and he purses his lips, finally does look away. But he steps a little closer, far into Eames' space, the heat of his body soaking into the forger's skin. "Hang on a sec," he says suddenly, and goes into the bedroom.

When he comes back, he's got a translucent red die in his palm. The acrylic is weighted, and will land on the same number every time. Eames would know, because he made it.

Arthur looks at him, almost shy, and rolls the die. Eames' heart clenches in the moment before it falls, but it comes up _one_ and – he's relieved. Arthur never changed it.

"The thing is," Arthur says, voice almost a whisper, "Dom knew what Mal's totem was. And now Mal is dead."

Eames is silent, watchful, all ears. He feels as though he is hearing the words from far off, but that he is grounded in Arthur's voice. He feels like things are starting to add up, little by little, the years and the months, all the little tells that Eames should've been able to pick up on because he's a goddamn _card sharp_.

"I don't know anyone else alive who were as good together as they were. And – Eames." Arthur's face is pinched and miserable, and he reaches up to touch the forger's face, tentatively, like he's not allowed. Like he wasn't just getting fucked into the table by Eames, like they hadn't just had breakfast and traded slow, sticky kisses that tasted syrupy and sweet.

Eames takes Arthur's hand and presses it to his cheek, scrapes his day-old stubble against the rough, gun-calloused palm. Turns his head and kisses the pads of the Arthur's fingers.

"I don't know how it got to that point, how they managed to _destroy _each other, and - neither of them were _forgers_!" Arthur says, emphatic and soft, staring at Eames' lips and curling his fingers around Eames' ear, skimming the line of Eames' jaw and settling the heel of his hand against Eames' collar bone.

And Eames knows. He does. To be a great forger, you have to forget yourself when you assume another identity. To do that in a dream, where one's grasp on reality is already tenuous at best...

He can't blame Arthur. No one can forge like Eames, but. Others have been lost, doing what he does. Doing it well.

"I'm so, so sorry. You made my goddamn totem, Eames, and unless I trusted you with everything, I couldn't trust anything. Fuck, I," and he's cut off here, since Eames is pushing into him, kissing his pale mouth and swallowing his words.

"There isn't a day that goes by," Arthur managers between heated breaths, "that I don't regret," but it trails off into loose vowels, soft moans, because Eames doesn't keep his hands to himself. He kisses Arthur soundly, and he's so sure, now. He'd known, before, because of all the small things – Arthur sleeping with his fingers hooked into the waist band of Eames' boxers, or with his fingers curled in the forger's hair, always some point of contact; the way Arthur woke up blearily every day for three years, always surprised and ridiculously pleased to see Eames; how he knew everything about everything, how he kept tabs, how if a job went badly and they had to split up, he was always at whichever safehouse Eames happened to choose off the top of his head. Usually before the forger himself was even there.

You can't buy that kind of devotion. Because you can't fabricate it.

So, even though they'd never officially said it, Eames knew Arthur had loved him. But he hadn't _believed_ it until this moment: Arthur saying, right now, that he left because he was afraid; Arthur demonstrating, last night, that he isn't anymore.

Eames settles his hands on Arthur's shoulders, pushes him gently back. Can't stop himself from kissing the younger man's face, the corners of his eyes and his forehead and the corner of his lips, which actually degenerates into more actual kissing.

Finally, he manages to extricate himself, to pull back.

"Why Ariadne, then?" He asks searchingly. Keeps his hands on Arthur's shoulders, comforting, not condemning.

"I felt like she deserved a fair shot," Arthur says steadily. "And I didn't think you'd – after what I did, I just." He looks away, but leans into the solid warmth of Eames' chest. Presses his mouth to the forger's neck, warm and open. "If something happened to her, it would be so terrible, Eames. Like – like with Mal." He closes his eyes. Eames can feel long lashes fluttering against his skin. "Devastating, but. I'd be able to get back up from it, eventually. Since I'm not Dom."

Eames sighs, brushes his thumb over Arthur's cheekbone and then loses his fingers in Arthur's hairline. "I understand, love," Eames kisses the top of his head.

"But I'm all in, now. Everything. I don't even care anymore. I've never been this unhappy in my entire goddamn life, Eames. If – if something happens to you, and it _destroys _me, I'd rather. I'd rather have that. Than not have that."

"All right," Eames says. "Okay."

Arthur starts, just a tiny jump, and looks up into his eyes. His own are wide and brown and seem impossibly young. "Just like that? You're just going to take me back?"

Eames could say: You left me and you never explained anything.

Could say, I spent six months waking up to an empty flat. Six months of reaching for you in the middle of the night and coming up short every time.

Could say: No. I won't do that to myself again. I'm not capable of it anymore.

But instead, he says, "Was there ever any doubt? Really, Arthur."

And it's exactly right, the slow slide of his smile, the warmth in his eyes, the way he presses his lips tightly together to keep from smiling to broadly.

So Eames leans in and kisses his mouth open anyway.

* * *

When they get around to talking about Joseph Couric, Eames gives the man a call while Arthur waits quietly, half a meter away. They're dressed, and Eames is sitting on the bare mattress. The sheets did, eventually, make it into the washer.

Eames listens to the ring for awhile, but there's no answer. Joe's always answered before.

He gives it a minute, then calls back. This time he leaves a message. "Just touching base," he says. "Call me when you can."

As he hangs up, Arthur looks at him guardedly.

"Yes?" Eames asks, canting his head for show.

"You didn't leave your name."

Eames raises an eyebrow. In the event that Joseph Couric is arrested – as criminals are wont to do – and his assets seized, any association with him would be poor form. Arthur knows this, naturally. Which means he's hedging.

"Is there a problem?" Eames asks.

Arthur looks sullen for moment, one of the rare instances where Eames is reminded that he is, actually, hardly out of his twenties. Then it clears and he asks, face carefully blank, "Are you sleeping with him?" There's hardly any hesitation at all to the words.

Eames snorts, shakes his head. "He'll recognize my voice because I've been working with him for the past week."

Arthur narrows his brown eyes, purses his lips.

The forger sighs. "No, Arthur. Jesus." The denial earns him a steady, focused scrutiny; but then Arthur relaxes, smiles just a bit: self-deprecating, embarrassed.

"I don't mean to," he begins, almost shy. Changes tack. "Sorry, Eames, it's... not my business."

Eames thinks, Okay. Here we go. "It sort of is your business," he mentions carefully. "Seeing as how we're back together." It's a question, more than anything.

Arthur's entire face lights up. "Yeah. Yeah, Eames, we are." Like he still doesn't believe it could be so easy.

Eames glances down at his mobile, frowning. "I was going to fly back on Sunday," he says. At Arthur's quick look, he adds, "Not that there are any loose ends. But I do need to properly decline his offer and pick up the PASIV."

"I see," Arthur says thoughtfully. "Can you get me on your flight?"

Eames reaches over and takes Arthur's hand, at once unused to the gesture and intimately familiar with it. Feels the brief squeeze in response.

"We leave at seven," he replies.

"So we should probably stop by Dom's at some point," Arthur says, tugging Eames off the bed and onto his feet. "If I'm not going to be in town for James's birthday. It's next week," he adds.

"Tuesday. I remember," Eames says, and sort-of smiles. "Also," he says quietly, "maybe you should get ahold of Ariadne?"

Arthur grimaces, but eventually nods. "Okay. I'll give her a call."

They spend the rest of the morning working. Arthur's got his laptop out, sitting on the same side of the couch he's always sat on, typing furiously, face expressionless. Eames is on the floor, hovering over the low coffee table with a magnifying glass, tweezers, an assortment of inks and chemicals, and several grades of stationary.

He's carefully assembling a letter of recommendation, movements deliberate, motor control fine-tuned, when Arthur very gently touches the top of his head.

Eames sets down his tools and leans back against Arthur's legs, tilting his head back inquiringly.

"Is that letterhead for Laforgue Law Offices?" He asks, spidering his fingertips idly through Eames' hair.

"It happens to be so, yes."

"How funny," Arthur murmurs. "I'm currently working with them as a security advisor."

"Oh? Do tell." Eames sort of pushes up with his legs so he can slide onto the couch, settling in next to him.

"It appears as though someone – a monsieur Remus Chernard? – has been taking clients on behalf of the firm, pocketing the front money, and tarnishing their professional reputation by neglecting to actually appear in court."

"How on earth is the man getting away with that, I wonder," says Eames, who doesn't, really.

"It's the strangest thing," and Arthur's smiling now, minimizing the screen he has up and setting his laptop aside. "There's paperwork, dated and signed, an employee file, even an entry in their database – and yet, no one recalls ever working with the man."

"Funny old world, innit," Eames grins. "Turnover's so high in the job market these days. So many passing faces."

Arthur leans over Eames, and the forger's heart stops for a moment; but he's gesturing to the signature at the bottom of the stationary. His mouth is hot against Eames' ear when he murmurs, "Monsieur Laforgue has two 'r's in his first name."

"Ah," Eames concedes. Best not get the senior partner's name wrong. "My eternal devotion and gratitude, darling."

It's nice, working in the same space again. He keeps having to glance over at Arthur, double- and triple-checking that he's actually here, in the flesh; to press his foot into Arthur's heel if he has to lean forward, or stays settled against his long legs when he moves back down to the floor. The contact, the quiet, is companionable.

They're getting used to each other in this context all over again. Once, when Eames twisted his knee during a pretty bad (but not disastrous) getaway, it was months before he could properly strength-train again; and when he could, the whole area felt tight and disused. But after that first day back at the gym, the tightness and the burn of working muscles, the ache of it was delicious. He felt stronger than he had in months, even if he'd felt weak at first.

Anyway, once everything sorts itself out and all the extraneous parts are caught up, it's. Well. It's a lot like this. Reassuring, to have everything in working order again. To be fully functional and whole.

That night, they order in. They take their time in the bedroom after dinner, until Arthur's choked pleas for release loosen Eames' resolve, and they both come, loud and messy and foul-mouthed.

The next morning they go to see Cobb, bearing birthday gifts. From Eames, a basic and age-appropriate How Things Are Made book with very detailed illustrations ("It all starts somewhere, yeah?"); and from Arthur, an elaborate logic puzzle cleverly masquerading as a detective game ("You're exactly right, Mr. Eames.").

Cobb is living in Paris now. It's a beautiful house, if not large - just the right size for a man and his two children, who will eventually become teenagers, who will eventually become adults and move out. There's ivy curling up around the wrought iron fence of a small courtyard, and when Arthur knocks on the door, smiling when Eames meets his eyes, there's the soft pad of young feet scrambling toward the foyer.

Presently, it swings open. Arthur's expression arrests, and then fades.

Because the person at the door is Ariadne.


	5. I watched the mighty skyline fall

It wouldn't've been so bad. It kind of makes sense that Ariadne would visit Cobb, or maybe stay with him – he got her into the business, after all, and is more or less her mentor. They have the established intimacy which comes from someone sifting through all your subconscious rubbish to pick apart your supermassive black hole of a guilt trip. And, sure, she maybe has friends from University she could've stayed with, but Eames is sure Ariadne would need to _talk_ about their breakup, just as Arthur had. She wouldn't have been able to explain it in a context an outsider could understand.

So her staying with Cobb, it doesn't have to be a thing. Arthur doesn't have to look alternately stricken and furious right now.

Except that Ariadne has answered the door wearing a white button-up shirt that's absolutely huge on her, with bare feet and mussed hair and – and she's tightening her jaw, lips pursed, faint color high in her cheeks.

Eames prudently takes the other gift from Arthur's arms.

"Jesus christ," he spits, and Eames pushes into the house in a way that sort of moves Ariadne out of the line of fire, makes space for Arthur to step inside, and also maybe protects the girl, just a smidge, in case Arthur loses his shit. He seems about to.

"Ariadne, who – " Cobb is saying, coming around the corner in his boxers and an open robe. "Oh, fuck," he mutters, running his hand through his hair. His disheveled, bed-head sex hair.

"You _selfish motherfucker_," Arthur is shouting as Eames prudently takes little Ariadne by the elbow and guides her from the room.

"Let's leave the children to their tantrum, yeah?" He says quietly, and Ariadne looks up at him, face creased and miserable.

" – killed _Mal_ and you didn't even fucking _tell me_ she was driving fucking _trains_ through your subconscious – " Arthur's voice floats after them.

Eames winces.

"We, ah, won't be in town for James' birthday. So we've brought apology gifts, " he says cheerily, setting the presents on the table: one wrapped in neat, glossy black paper with a silver bow, the other horrifyingly kiddish with half a million mismatched colors, balloons, and a braided blue and orange ribbon.

"Thanks, Eames. Do you want coffee or something," she asks, voice tired and small against the muffled sounds of argument filtering in from the foyer, and the forger follows her into the kitchen. He studiously looks away as she reaches up into the cabinet for mugs, because it rucks her shirt up a bit higher, and even if he's pretty much mostly interested in men right now and also in love with someone else, Ariadne's pale legs would tempt the virgin Mary into kissing a girl and maybe liking it.

"Tea if you have it," he smiles. She manages to scrounge one up herself, but it's small and tight and unhappy, more a grimace than anything else, as she puts some water on.

"Is green okay?" She asks, rifling through the cupboards with the practiced ease of someone who has spent a lot of time in Cobb's kitchen.

"Green is lovely," Eames says, and then reaches out and touches her shoulder. His hand is huge by comparison, and she turns and looks up at him, expression guarded and sad. Eames is about to say, How are you doing, when Arthur's voice rises again:

" – only give a shit about _yourself_, you drag everyone under too heavily sedated to wake up by _dying_ and you don't fucking _tell us_ – "

Cobb is saying something back, heated, but not as loud as Arthur.

"Think he's talking about his kids," Eames supplies.

"Probably," Ariadne sighs, and glances at the refrigerator instinctively: Phillipa's got a picture hung up, crayon and marker and colored pencil, every color in the box. She's dressed herself as a princess.

"'_Judgement _call?' Holy fuck, Cobb, it was worth the _not insignificant risk_ of dropping every one of us into _limbo_ on the off-chance your charges would be cleared?"

Ariadne sighs miserably, but she doesn't look angry. Eames figures it's because she's already had her fight with Arthur, and. Well, honestly, Arthur isn't wrong.

Eames is certainly biased, but – Arthur still isn't wrong.

They are both uncomfortable bystanders, listening to the men they love tear into each other.

"I'm sorry you have to hear this," he says, gently. Araidne looks up at him curiously.

"It's just – he has a long fuse. But he won't back down from a confrontation. And," Eames sighs, purses his lips. Ariadne glances briefly at his mouth before her gaze falls lower, to his shoes. "I feel like he's needed to have this conversation for awhile. He's touched on different parts of it but, out of respect for Cobb, I believe he kept it civil."

"You know Arthur really well," Ariadne whispers, her arms around herself.

"We've... worked together for years."

She quirks a small smile. "You know, it's funny. During the Fischer job, I thought – you were friends. But. After, I never really saw you."

The water's boiling, so Ariadne pulls the pot off the stovetop and pours it carefully over a teabag. She doesn't burn her hands or spill or anything, just goes about it methodical and precise.

There's a strange sensation in his gut, watching her – a kind of slow awareness of how very alike Ariadne and Arthur are, at heart, even if they express anger or communicate differently. He's sure, if maybe they were a bit older, or a bit more used to each other – if Eames weren't in the picture, nor Cobb – there was some world where they could be happy together. It takes him a moment, but he recognizes the feeling as, possibly, a subtle pang of guilt.

"I've had a lot on my plate, since." Eames lies.

Ariadne pours coffee for herself, sips it black. They both shamelessly eavesdrop.

" – for _you_! The best thing that ever fucking happened to me, and I threw it away to fucking clean up your _mess _– "

"I didn't _ask_ you to!" Cobb is finally screaming, and Ariadne jumps, startled. "No one held a fucking gun to your head, Arthur!"

"You're a goddamn _child_, Cobb," and there is an ugly sneer evident in Arthur's voice. "You don't give a _shit_ who you hurt, as long as you get what you want."

Eames frowns, pushes away from the table – it's probably his cue to intervene.

Ariadne stops him, her small hand in the crook of his elbow. "Eames."

"Yes, love?"

She looks up at him, looks away. Looks back, steeling herself. "Am I awful?" She's imploring, sincere, like she honestly thinks Eames is a sterling judge of moral character.

Eames studies her for a moment, and she doesn't break eye contact.

"No, Ariadne," he says firmly.

"I do love Arthur," she says, and it stirs something in Eames that is almost like trepidation. Unease. Fear.

"But it's not something I can't live without," she continues, voice hushed. "That's the problem, right? And I really tried to make it work, I..."

"I know you did," Eames says, and touches her hair. She looks up at him, dejected.

"I hate fucking everything up," she sighs.

"Funny," Eames murmurs, thumbing her cheek. It's dry. "He said a very similar thing."

She laughs, almost – a dry, surprised sound. After a moment, she says, "This thing with Cobb, I." She grimaces, casts for the words she needs, and Eames nods.

"Here is what I have learned," he says solemnly, and she puts on a face like the most diligent of students. "We all have things and we all need things. If someone does not have something you need, what are they to you?"

She hardly thinks about it. "Nonvital."

"Right," Eames says, his hand on the door. He really ought to make sure they haven't killed each other.

Just before he leaves the kitchen, Ariadne asks hesitantly, "What do you need from Arthur, Eames?"

He thinks, For his nails to flex and cut into my forearms when he comes.

He says, "His alarmingly thorough research. Since I can't be bothered."

Thinks, His cock, hard and weeping in my hand.

He smiles crookedly and continues, "His ingenious and horrifying hotel room security setup practices. The truly terrible smell of that tar he passes for coffee every morning. His gun hand."

Thinks, For him to hog the entire fucking bed for the rest of my fucking life. The way he wakes up tangled in sheets and me. His stupid smiley-face omelets.

"His stupid smiley-face omelets."

Ariadne cracks a watery grin.

* * *

"...fucking my _fiancee_, I bet our sheets weren't even cold before you – "

"Arthur, I think that's quite enough," Eames snaps, and the point-man glances up, bloody furious, but after a second passes he simply looks stricken; then he looks ashamed.

"Cobb," Eames say, not unkindly, and the man looks at him with piercing, exhausted blue eyes. His shoulders are slumped just a bit and his face is flushed. "I took the Nash job."

Cobb's eyebrows shoot up. "Why?"

"We can get into that later, or not. I just wanted to let you know that Nash is not on the job, that it's not really a job at all, and that Arthur and I will be in Jersey tying up some loose ends. We will miss James' birthday, and we apologize."

"But they've brought apology gifts," Ariadne interjects. Cobb smiles, awkward and bemused and kind of brittle. But he does smile at her.

Arthur, standing off to the side, his cheeks also a bit red and his arms crossed, says nothing – but he glances from Ariadne to Cobb. Then, inexplicably, to Eames' shoes. Sets his jaw.

"Can I talk to you for a minute? Arthur?" Ariadne asks, quiet but firm.

He really looks like he's going to say no, only she adds, "It's important." So he grudgingly follows her into the kitchen, since he's not a monster. Eames kind of likes that – they may all be devious criminals, but. They still care about each other at the end of the day. Even when they're mad as hell. Or something. They're all kind of – family.

Cobb looks like he wants to follow, but after a few silent moments – it's certainly not the screaming match of the last several minutes – he says, "I'm glad, Eames," and he sounds tired.

"Hmm?"

Cobb just looks at him, eyes steady and direct. "The two of you," he starts. "You're – ?"

"Yeah, mate," Eames says, twisting his smile into something presentable.

Cobb claps his shoulder, leaves his hand there. "You know, when I told him we needed you on the Fischer job, he tried to talk me out of it."

"I'm sure." Nothing of the tightness in his chest bleeds over into his voice. He makes sure of this.

"But he also looked at me like – well, he's really missed you, Eames. I'm sorry that I – that, with Mal, I just," Cobb sighs through his teeth and looks away. "I wouldn't have done well without him. But he was – really unhappy, the whole time, and I just. I'm sorry."

"I've never blamed you for it," Eames says firmly. "Not once." And it's the honest-to-god truth.

Thanks to Cobb, to what happened with Mal, he knows exactly where he'd be if something ever happened to Arthur. He only hopes someone would pick up the pieces for him, too.

* * *

In the car, Arthur is saying, "Is this the part where you tell me I'm a petulant child?"

"No, Arthur," Eames says. "It's the part where I say, 'Good thing the kids were with Miles this afternoon.' What did little Ari want?"

Something crosses the dark-haired man's face, flashes through his eyes like pain, or loss – but it's momentary. He says at length, "Just that – we did our best, and it didn't work, and that it's okay. And we both deserve to be happy, instead of – cutting our losses." He sighs, palms his eyes. "Why did you just take me back, Eames? You didn't – make me beg, you didn't even fucking think about it."

"I didn't," he replies. Arthur looks up at him. He looks less miserable – there's maybe one part wonder mixed in, and an eighth residual anger.

"I'm efficient that way," Eames says, shrugging. "It's more about the end result, for me"

Arthur watches in silence, studies him in profile as Eames drives, until finally the forger asks, "What? Have I got something on my face?"

"No," he says quietly, and Eames catches his half-smile before they both turn back to the road.

"So Ariadne called you," Arthur says after a while. Eames is pulling into a old lot outside of a dingy pawn shop.

"She did."

"I'm glad. It – isn't always safe."

"No," Eames agrees. "It isn't. Say, what are you telling Laforgue?"

"My contact is kind of a prick. I was thinking of setting him up as the illustrious Remus Chernard. The firm can press charges from there."

"Ah. Which is his real name?"

"Which is easier for you?"

Eames grins perversely. "I'll direct my client to a different firm that he may falsely represent."

They get out of the car, wander up to a seedy-looking establishment sagging in a corner lot. Arthur is walking relatively close to him, and it gives him a flush of pleasure, deep in his chest. A kind of overflow of heat, that they can be like this again. That everything is finally okay.

Eames catches the point-man watching him peripherally, just a short shy glance, before he slides his fingers tentatively over the forger's forearm. They walk into the pawn-shop like that, not exactly arm-in-arm, but the gesture is the same and Eames can't say he wants for anything.

The place is piled high will all and sundry. Scummy instruments, old furniture, a television that is not only functional, but currently put to use playing infomercials.

"Anastasie," Eames calls around a pile of really decrepit books, and an elderly rottweiler comes bounding out of the back of the store, making a beeline for Arthur.

"Is this... god, is this Cognac?" Arthur asks, sinking to his knees and – astonishingly – allowing the dog to basically slather drool and tongue all over his face. (Eames is actually a bit jealous. It is not his proudest moment.) "It's been – what, two years? Three?"

"_Va te faire enculer chez les Grecs_," comes a sharp, rude voice, and a tiny Frenchwoman wanders around the corner. "It has been three years, Arthur," she continues in heavily accented English. She is short and thin, with hard eyes and flyaway brown hair streaked with gray. She glares heavily at the both of them. "Three years and you have never come to visit. I should spit on you. Cognac should eat your _couilles_."

"Ana, you are a vision of loveliness, as always." Eames bends down to take her tiny hand in his and kiss her knuckles.

"Oh no you don't, you insufferable _bâtarde_. I am still missing my good silver ring. The one with the _améthystes_ and the jades." She sniffs disdainfully, but doesn't actually withdraw her hand.

"Sweetheart, you wound me," Eames laments. He lays it on thick, sliding his thumb over her bony knuckles, and she almost flushes. Almost. It's a very near thing. Eames is very charming. He is always in danger of overwhelming the general public.

Arthur stands, and Anastasie fixes her dark eyes on him. Then she looks carefully at Eames. "It is good you two are working together again. Idiots." She locks the front door, though she doesn't actually bother with the open sign.

"Come on then, I know what you are looking for," she snorts. "The only reason you ever visit me, Monsieur Eames."

Arthur brushes a few errant strands of dog hair off his slacks, but leaves a hand on Cognac's head as he follows them both into the back of the shop.

"So did you just run off and tell everyone I broke your heart," he says, voice stilted and awkward, "or something?" Glances sidelong at Eames, purses his lips.

"No. They simply noted your absence. And I may have been..." Inconsolable. Depressed. Really fucking wrecked. Lonely as shit. Irritable and frustrated and bloody _angry_. "...noticeably unhappy. Somewhat."

"I see," is all Arthur says. His hand finds Eames' elbow again, the lightest brush of fingertips.

In the back is where Anastasie freebases cocaine. It's also where she keeps chemicals, drugs, and medical miscellanea that require refrigeration.

Presenty, Eames finds a cold lunchbox-sized cooler pressed into his hands. "This is should be enough for the area you described," she says, voice clear and professional, and Eames pops it open. There are four syringes on a bed of ice, packed carefully in chilly, transparent bubble wrap.

"This is perfect, _mademoiselle_." The syringes aren't labelled, but expertly prepared. There are no markings whatsoever on the cooler.

Eames gives Anastasie a significant amount of euros, and she leans up on the very tips of her toes to kiss his cheek.

Since she is quite a bit smaller than he is, Eames facilitates by bending down to her level.

"Do stop by to visit," Anastasie scolds as they leave. "I am not a whore you would loathe to be seen with in public."

"And even if you were, Mr. Eames is shameless. He'd show you off."

"But Arthur, dear," Eames says, sweet as can be, "I've got you for that."

"_Casse toi_," Arthur hisses with a pretty terrible accent, and Anastasie laughs and laughs.

* * *

In the car back to their flat Arthur asks, "What are you bringing to the US in refrigerated syringes?"

"Well," Eames says, merging into traffic, "It's a kind of scar treatment. It's not available in the States yet, due to... research restrictions."

"Derived from an endangered species?"

"No."

"Stem cells?"

"Right."

Arthur purses his lips and glances in the rearview mirror. "For Joseph Couric?"

"Yes."

There's silence for awhile, until they're pulling into the garage and Eames is keying in the code. Eventually, when they get back to the room, Arthur hedges,

"I thought you weren't – that it wasn't personal."

Eames blinks, looks at the point-man very carefully: lovely, but distant. Closed off, but meeting his eyes with purpose.

"If he's going to run this operation without me, he needs to be more inconspicuous. It's extraordinarily difficult to go unnoticed – or noticed, but for the right reasons – when you stand out like he does."

"You're – teaching him to forge?"

"Probably not. But a few other things. Since I won't be working with him."

"Hmm." Arthur looks at Eames' face carefully, lingering on his lips and tracing the curves of his cheekbones with warm brown eyes. Eames himself is quite stuck on the way Arthur's lashes flutter each time he shifts his gaze. "You never tried to teach _me _anything."

Eames puts the cooler with the syringes into the fridge, then wanders into their bedroom, pulling off his shirt as he goes. "But Arthur," he says over his shoulder as he unbuckles belt, drops it to the floor, "you already know everything."

"I can't forge." Arthur points out. He's lounging in the doorway at first, but then he's behind Eames and ghosting his fingertips over the matte black tattoos, exploring the grooves between his muscles and kissing the points of his broad shoulders. He's trailing his tongue over the angle of a shoulder blade, easing his palms down over Eames' hips and beneath the waistband of his undone slacks.

"You'll never need to," Eames says, since it's the most obvious thing in the world and Arthur is a very silly man. "You have me for the grunt work, my dear." He turns his head, and Arthur's mouth is already there, on his, tugging at his lower lip with teeth. Hot and shallow, and Eames shifts in the circle of his arms to deepen it, slot their lips together, slide his tongue further into that wet heat.

"So I've got my kit off," he murmurs in a low rumble. "And I see that you haven't."

Arthur loosens his tie, but Eames grins as he makes short work of his button-down. "Leave that on."

They end up with Eames flat on his back, Arthur riding his cock like he was born for it, sweat gleaming at throat and chest and belly, everything on display. Naked except for the pale gray tie, circled around his neck like a posh noose.

Eames grips those slim hips tightly enough to leave bruises (on top of bruises on top of bruises, it's a serious problem, Eames is not one for letting go) shoving up into him, as Arthur braces against the wall with one hard forearm as he strokes his dick with the other, above Eames, and by the time they're done there is come sliding out of Arthur's body and Eames has a swath of it from cheek to clavicle. It's messy and sticky, but at least they got most of it on themselves.

After they're more or less cleaned up and Eames has his head tucked beneath Arthur's chin, listening to the pulse at the hollow of his throat, Arthur says:

"So Couric is your friend, not your lover. And we're going to meet with him so you can prime him to con his way up the mafia food chain. Because you are not going to be his partner and become a crimelord."

"That about sums it up." Eames replies. "Though it would've been a lark. I've never been a crimelord before. And I think Joe would have been an excellent partner, once he loosened up a bit."

Arthur hesitates, then moves onto his side, facing Eames, propping his head in his hand. "You were really going to do it, though? Before we...?" He trails off, leaving the thought unfinished.

Eames tilts his head, touches his tongue to his lips in contemplation. Mostly because Arthur can't seem to look away from his mouth, which is a spectacular feeling.

"I was."

Arthur does look at him then, his face as open and earnest as Eames has ever seen it. It makes something delicate and warm pool in his chest, constricting and liberating at once: wingless flight, invisible, tangible connection.

"You know," he says at length. "I've never been a crimelord, either."

"It would be a long run," Eames murmurs, surprised. He hadn't even thought about it, before: him and Arthur and Joe. "A couple of years, minimum. Not something we could walk away from without compromising him."

"Well, nothing you have lined up is set in stone yet. And we've tied off both ends of the Laforgue case."

"Speaking of," Eames mentions, sliding his fingertips over Arthur's sternum and dipping over to pinch a rosy nipple. Arthur squeaks. "Do you make it a habit of taking jobs to work _opposite_ me?"

"Only when you leave me," Arthur snipes, wrinkling his nose. "Even if I'm being stupid and dating someone because they aren't you."

"You left me first," Eames says, and he means for it to be in jest, careless, colorless. But it comes out breathy, hitched, and Arthur reaches over and takes his face in his calloused hands.

Gunmetal, Eames thinks. Dior. Cold fingertips fluttering over laptop keys at three in the morning. Crisp, white collars. Fists with which to neutralize an assailant, and to tighten around Eames' cock until he screams and comes. Those dimples set around that gorgeous mouth, and every rare smile.

He may have been lying, slightly, to Ariadne. By omission. Because what he _needs_ from Arthur is _everything_.

"But I came back," Arthur whispers against his mouth, giving shape to the words almost without voice: the only person Eames has ever fucking loved in the sense that it really fucks you over forever, ruins you for other lovers, ruins you for happiness in your life. And he's still talking and Eames is listening with as much focus as anyone ever listened to anything, but he can't keep himself from trying to kiss those pale lips, mouthing the shape of each syllable as they leave Arthur's throat.

"I came back, Eames," he repeats, serious and sure, "and I'll never leave you again."

* * *

They spend the flight from Paris napping intermittently, with Eames' repeated attempts at joining the Mile High Club continually rebuffed.

"Eames, might I remind you that sex in an airplane bathroom is a felony."

"But we are _international criminals_!" Eames says.

"But we are using forged passports and you are smuggling illegal drugs. And I cannot believe that you _brought them on the plane_."

"It was simple enough, love. I just told security it was insulin. They didn't even ask for a doctor's note." Eames smiles winningly at the flight attendant who has approached them.

"We're rehearsing for a play," he says, charming and loose. He's by the window, and takes this opportunity to lean over Arthur's lap. He pitches his voice low, like a secret. "It's about _terrorists_. I'm the hero, of course." He's playing up his accent, and the stewardess blushes faintly.

"Like James Bond?" She asks, attentive and cute. Near his ear, Arthur exhales through his nose in a silent, derisive snort.

"Yes, exactly. Could I trouble you for a blanket, pet? I tend to catch an awful chill on long flights."

Eames leans back after she leaves, except Arthur's hand has made its way to the back of his neck and halts him. "This is a good position for you," he murmurs, fingers smooth over flesh and pulse. "Too bad you can't suck me off in the bathroom."

"It's half the reason they put a loo in the air," Eames complains around his suddenly erratic heartbeat. "For sucking. In private. Not polite otherwise in such an enclosed space." Arthur lets him go before the flight attendant returns.

But, once they are cozy beneath the blanket (and the woman has given up flirting), Arthur casually and without expression drags his palm over the front of Eames' trousers, gripping him through the fabric.

"That's," Eames begins.

"Oh," he says.

"Argh," he says, and goes to the loo.

When he gets back, Arthur is smirking faintly. He says nothing as Eames climbs over him to get to his seat, but after a minute or two he asks,

"So does it count as the Mile High Club if you have to finish yourself?"

He looks entirely too pleased. Eames glowers. Then, tentatively, he reaches out and covers Arthur's hand with his own.

They must fall asleep at some point, because he eventually wakes up with a dark head on his shoulder and the sun in a strange place in the sky, spilling out over the vast cloudscape and into their small window. The seatbelt sign is on, and the captain is partway through making an announcement.

" – tham City, New Jersey. We'd like to thank you for choosing L'Avion for your travels."

They shuffle off the plane with their carry-ons, and Eames puts his idle hands to good use. By the time they reach the car rentals, he's several hundred US dollars richer.

"That's the nice thing about you, Mr. Eames," Arthur says, with a quiet half-smile. "You never get caught."

"It's these magic hands of mine, darling," Eames drawls, making the harmless sentence lewd and suggestive. Arthur says nothing, and when he glances over at him there is the faintest hint of red on his cheeks. He's fucking gorgeous when he blushes.

They're both tired from the flight, but Arthur agrees to drive. Probably he doesn't trust Eames to stay on the right side of the road. Even though Eames, a very capable specimen of humanity, can do basically anything.

Except, possibly, give birth. But he could certainly lend a hand at any of the various stages.

"This isn't a bad neighborhood," Arthur says with a faint twist to his lips. They're pulling into the driveway of the house where Eames last saw Joe, and there isn't another car nearby. But the lights are on. This is somewhat heartening, as Joe still hasn't picked up the last few times Eames has dialed him. And he still hasn't called back.

"No," Eames agrees as they get out of the car. "It's not."

"It makes you wonder what he aspires to. He's already got money, clearly. Seems to know how to make more."

Eames thinks about it, and it's true, mostly. It's never been about power, for him – just money and excitement. For Arthur, he's pretty sure it's about money and a kind of fetish for research. Also guns.

He knocks on the door, but Arthur is the one who jimmies the lock when there's no answer.

"See," Eames murmurs, "I've taught you some things."

Arthur's about to shoot him this little half-smirk, Eames _knows _he is – but he watches the expression die before it's ever fully formed, because he's watching Arthur's face when they enter the kitchen. When they find Joe Couric's gaunt, pale body hooked up to the blinking silver PASIV machine.

"Fucking hell," Eames whispers, and Arthur goes to his knees and checks the man's vitals. His lips are pressed into a thin line as he tries to wake the man. Joe's eyes flutter, briefly, but he is otherwise unresponsive.

"He's alive," Arthur says over his shoulder, straightening. "The timer was set for – thirty hours." His voice hitches at the number, despite his methodical tone, because that's two and a half goddamn _weeks_. "There's no telling when, but he's not under right now."

The thing about Eames is that he's good in an emergency. He doesn't freak the fuck out, like Cobb, and if he's sarcastic at least he's analytical. He works out the best way to fix a problem, and takes steps to do so. It really is as simple as that.

So the fact that Joseph Couric, at this particular moment in time, may or may not have a kilo and a half of slippery wet noodles in place of something capable of higher brain function is secondary to the more pressing concern of what the _fuck _they can possibly _do_ about it.

Arthur says sharply, "This isn't your fault."

Eames says, It bloody well _is_ my fault. Except he doesn't. He just swallows and starts to calibrate the PASIV, gives it a once-over to make sure everything is running smoothly and also to do something that _isn't freaking the fuck out_. His fingers don't shake.

"Hey," Arthur says, touching his face, and Eames looks up. "He obviously didn't die while he was under, since the timer ran out. I'm sure he's just – " but he trails off, because Joe is not sleeping, because Joe will not wake up.

"You didn't teach him how to drop levels?"

"No," Eames finally says. "But he knows it can be done. And it isn't hard to figure out." It isn't hard to dream up a PASIV device and go under again. And again. To forget.

Arthur leaves the kitchen, trailing his hand over Eames' shoulder in a small gesture of comfort that Eames clings to.

He comes back and says, "I've secured the premises. Are we ready to go?"

"I don't even know if it can be done, if he's – comatose."

"I've never tried," Arthur says quietly, brow wrinkled in thought. "But theoretically, if he's still in there, we should be able to interact with his subconscious."

Eames does not feel at all confident about this, but his unease can't even touch his mounting guilt. There's no contest here.

So they settle themselves down. And hook themselves up

* * *

"Arthur. Can you tell me why we're in a slaughterhouse."

Arthur is dressed in a suit, which isn't unusual in itself. But it fits strangely, wraps around him ragged and sharp, distorted edges and awkward angles. When he turns his face to look at Eames, he's wearing a half-mask, like the Phantom of the Opera, only it flares out to the left like a pale wing. He is colored in subdued grays and charcoals, accented in red. The visible half of his face is bleak and wary.

"Okay," Arthur says. "I definitely did not choose a slaughterhouse, this is disgusting." It's also alarming, because Arthur is the fucking _dreamer_ and whatever posh establishment he would have chosen should be where they _are_. Not here. "Also, you look. Um."

Eames glances down at himself, lips twisting. He's wearing a trench coat, but it's not really beige or tan – it's brilliant orange, streaked with teal, spattered like paint or bright mud. The collar is high and ornate with strange patterns, and the quality of light in the dream seems to make the colors pulse and glow. He also has gloves on with a diamond pattern.

"Ugh," Eames says, because the thing about slaughterhouses? They have meat hooks _everywhere._

So while this is not really unusual – just extraordinarily unappetizing – what _is_ unusual, and also horrifying, is when every side of beef in the place starts to _scream_.

Arthur fires off two shots before realizing they make no difference – the meat is already dead, and most don't even have mouths. He looks unnerved and a bit afraid and overwhelmed by the sheer _volume_, but Eames gets a firm grip on his wrist and pulls him up a set of bare cement stairs (stained) and through a ragged metal door (rusted), which he slams behind them. The screaming hasn't gone, but it is suitably muffled for the time being.

Arthur is panting, and Eames can feel a cold sweat beading at his temples. He is not having a good time, trying to predict the awful ways he and Arthur are going to die.

"What the actual fuck," the point-man is saying, shaking his head. Then he glances at the corridor around them. It's long and wildly green with strange trapezoid windows at irregular intervals. There is some approximation of a field or fairground outside, jumbled up with chaotically parked vehicles, piecey and mismatched, as if someone has taken a bag full of every model of car, beat it with a stick, and then everything back together. Except reconstructing them absolutely wrong, so wrong it must have taken real effort to figure out.

Most of the cars are whole, relatively speaking, but some of them are fucking _destroyed_, like they were involved in the world's worst hundred-car pileup. Off a cliff. Onto landmines.

There's nothing helping it but to start down the hallway.

"What kind of medication was he taking?" Arthur asks, skin and clothing tinted with the grimy light leaking from the walls and windows like a physical presence. It's disconcerting.

"Well," Eames starts, and doesn't continue.

After a beat, Arthur says in a carefully clipped way, "Are you telling me, Mr. Eames, that you injected Somnacin into a man who was on medication for psychotic hallucinations and you _didn't fucking double check his prescription medications for possible interactions_."

"I didn't know he was _hallucinating_," Eames says, but Arthur shakes his head curtly.

"This is what happens when you take jobs without me," he says sharply. "You don't do any fucking research beyond your forge because you_ can't be arsed_ – " really, mocking his accent was hardly necessary, " – and you set yourself up for shit like _this_, and now we get to deal with a lunatic who's done nothing but stare down his _crazy subconscious_ for the better part of a month?"

"What can I say," Eames murmurs, pausing to hook his finger under Arthur's chin and tilt it for a kiss. "I'm lost without you." The tension and anger slowly drain out of Arthur's body, and Eames ends the kiss with a smile.

"You're not – not off the hook," Arthur says, just a bit breathless. "But I'll let this go for now."

"I know you only worry because you care," Eames settles his hand on the small of Arthur's back.

"Shut up," he says. But he doesn't move away.

At the end of a hall is a rounded door, and the kind of silence that radiates from it is the kind you get when you're a kid, in the dark of the night, surrounded by monsters. It is not promising.

Arthur opens the door before Eames has a chance to really get his nerve up, and it looks like the living room of a house. A crooked, bizzaro-world house with horrifying wallpaper and upside-down pictures, and a stained couch with a naked woman strung out on it. She's bound at wrist and ankle with ragged pink rope.

Eames looks on without expression; there is a sharp intake of breath from Arthur beside him.

The woman is face down, smeared with blood and dirt, and her hair is stringy and greasy and matted. There are huge bloody strips of what is apparently skin, great swathes of it, like the woman has been _flayed._

"Eames, this is – that's – is he _torturing his projections_," and they turn as one when a new door creaks ominously open.

A man stands before them. He's big and ugly and his proportions are screwed up, unreal, and his skin is a patchwork of colors, natural and not. What are very clearly stitches and sutures gleam wetly in the light.

He's carrying a meat cleaver.

"I think we need to leave," Arthur says as the projection stares at him, long and hard, before walking slowly over to the dead woman and matter-of-factly cutting into the muscle of her leg, separating it from her femur with wet, ragged sounds. Eames sort of needs to throw up.

Arthur actually does throw up, and the projection starts to eat the filthy, half-rotted flesh.

Then the woman starts crying, quietly, and the man rubs her back in soothing circles. She struggles, weakly, against her bonds – which are turning out not to be rope at all. Which are turning out to be intestines.

Eames pulls out his gun and shoves it up under his chin. Arthur follows suit.

* * *

Eames gets slowly to his feet, nauseated and anxious. The PASIV still has about three minutes to go.

Arthur goes to splash water on his face, at the sink, except nothing comes out when he turns on the faucet. "You know," he says slowly, "I don't actually think he owns this house."

"Jesus," Eames mutters, standing near the window. "This is so many kinds of fucked up." He feels – tainted, from being in that place. Covered with invisible tarnish that he can't polish away, like there's dried blood in the grooves of his psyche, scum and stains.

Arthur says nothing. Eventually the PASIV times out, and he packs it up with practiced care. His motions are deft and automatic, but his face is closed off, remote.

If Eames hadn't been watching Arthur, he may not have noticed the movement behind him. But he is, so he does.

Joe's eyes flicker, dead space. But then they twitch to Eames, meet his gaze, and slowly, slowly, the man raises his hand.

"_Arthur_," Eames hisses, and the point-man wastes no time stepping quickly back, turning, staring Joe down with quiet intensity.

Slumped on the floor, hungry and dehydrated and weak, Joseph Couric watches the both of them without the barest sign of recognition.

Arthur's hands are fisted, quite possibly to hide slight tremors, and Eames bangs around in the cupboards until he finds a couple of water bottles.

"Here, mate," he says, and sets them on the floor.

Joe sort of reaches for the water, but his eyes don't leave Arthur.

So Eames is standing in a barren kitchen, in a home no one lives in, with his lover and his employer-but-maybe-partner who, as it happens, is _extraordinarily fucked up subconsciously_. And who may or may not be permanently damaged by prolonged exposure to his own psychoses, and/or drug interaction. This is actually his life.

"Mr. Couric," Arthur is saying, crouching down a safe distance away, "do you know who I am?"

The man licks his lips, and the movement stretches the mess of scars. He stares hard at Arthur, and then slowly, slowly shifts his gaze to Eames. Looks the forger up and down, like he's trying to read a book through a pane of distorted, semi-opaque glass.

When he finally speaks, it is slow and careful, and his voice is rough and parched. "I know _of_ you. _You_," he says, pointing sloppily at Arthur and then jerking his head toward Eames, "are _loose ends_." He smiles, innocuous and sweet, like a child. Except it's like a searchlight, impossibly blinding, because Joe never likes to call attention to his mouth. And the scars don't make anything about his seem innocent. "_You_," he continues, to Arthur, are "ro_man_tic en_tangle_ments."

His speech, inherently strange, twists and buckles; and the more the talks, the more nervous Eames grows. Arthur glances at him over his shoulder, questioningly, and Eames shakes his head once, slow.

He clears his throat and Arthur opens a bottle of water and hands it to him. "I'm going to need you to drink this, Mr. Couric."

"Oh," he says, breathless and charmed, "withou_t_ a single dead ra_t_ to f_oul _the sup_ply_? You are _tru_ly a kind and con_sid_erate indi_vid_ual." He upends the bottle, drinks half of it immediately. He chokes, but manages to keep it down.

"Joe," Eames says softly, "can you – tell me how long you were down there?"

"At the center of the maze," Joe rasps, "there is a spiral staircase. Assembled of _crys_tal and _slime_. A_bove_ swings a pendulum, very quickly, very _si_lent, like a second hand. And there are floors... rooms... and _others_ on every _lev_el." He licks his lips, takes a moment to drink more water. It streams down his mouth and dots his collar. "You can explore them for _years_. You can grow _ol_d exploring them."

He is moving his fingertips in small circles on his thigh, mesmerized by the motion. "The strange _thi_ng, my good frien_ds_, is that the _low_er you _go_, the _slow_er the pendulum _swin_gs."

"Mr. Eames, can I have a word?" Arthur says, straightening, and he seems hesitant to leave Joe alone – so they wander to the other side of the room and speak in hushed voices.

"If he is talking about a theoretical subconscious descent – if he built a fucking _staircase_ to _move between dream levels_ – "

"Arthur," Eames whispers quietly, "if he has been torturing – if he, for _years_, what the _fuck _can we," and Arthur shakes his head, has his hand on Eames' shoulder. Tilts his lips against Eames' ear.

"We need to monitor him for a few weeks. Maybe get him into an asylum, professional care." Arthur pauses, then presses a kiss to Eames' temple.

"I can put some papers together." Eames says, miserable.

"I'll get my laptop."

* * *

Arthur does some preliminary research at the kitchen table while Eames tells some lies to the water company, cleans Joe up as best he can once the shower turns on. At one point they order take-out. Then Arthur does some in-depth research, and takes copious notes.

Eames is playing cards with Joe. It's mostly going well, except for the decidedly creepy things Joe is occasionally saying. When Eames takes the joker out of the deck, Joe stops him with a gentle hand.

"No," he'd implored, hazel eyes large and sincere. "You _can_'t. He's the only one who _listens_," he mutters, wondering, and then asks a completely normal question after that:

"You told me of extraction, but what of _inception_. You mentioned it once, but I've for_got_ten."

"Extraction is about taking what you can get," Eames says, wary and weary, dealing five-card hands. "Inception is about putting something back."

"Like sending a message," Joe says, turning over a red queen. "It's sending a _message_."

Around four o'clock, Arthur shows Eames a list of mental institutions. The only one of any esteem is run by a Mr. Crane, and when Arthur hacks the database and looks over the patient files, his forehead creases.

"There seem to be a lot of high-profile... characters here." He murmurs, scrolling through the list. "Some of them aren't even listed under real names. But it's an asylum for the criminally insane, so this is probably the best we're going to get."

"All right. If you want to get started planting a patient record, I'll put together the hard copies."

Two days later, they're pulling into the gates with doctored files, references, and Joseph Couric in tow. He is exhausted, heavy bags under his eyes and a gauntness to his features that is not at all surprising, if you consider the extremely vocal nightmares he has whenever he falls asleep.

The asylum is large and well-maintained, and even Arthur looks somewhat placated by the modern building, the tasteful but expensive decor.

There is a slight hiccup when they finally meet Dr. Crane. Black hair, brilliant cheekbones, piercing blue eyes – it is everything Eames can do to keep from bursting out, Why, Mr. Fischer, fancy seeing _you_ here.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Crane," Arthur is saying smoothly, clasping his hand. "My name is Eric. We spoke on the phone about admitting our associate?" He hardly falters on the word, but gives it just enough emphasis to cause Robert-fucking-Fischer - who is apparently a _psychopharmacologist_ now, what the actual _fuck_ – to reassure them.

"We have a lot of high-profile patients here," he is saying firmly, clasping their hands. "We are a private institution and we value the safety and health of our clients above all else. I promise you, your – associate – will not want for anything. Shall I give you the grand tour?"

The facility is clean and state-of-the-art. Arthur asks about the staff for form's sake, even though he has already the resume of every one of them. At one point, Dr. Crane looks at Eames with a flicker of recognition; like a flavor from childhood that can't be placed, unlikely to ever be recovered.

"Can I help you, mate?" Eames smiles affably.

"Oh, no, Mr. Robinson," he says to Eames, a wry twist to his lips. "You simply remind me of someone."

"Must be a handsome bloke," Eames murmurs, and Dr. Crane laughs. Regardless of how he got here, Robert Fischer seems to be in a better place. He seems happy, for a start.

They commit Joe that afternoon, under the criminal alias he chose for himself. They'd had the conversation as best they could – how he needs to spend some time talking through what he's experienced with professionals, how he needs to be evaluated for his own good.

Eames isn't actually sure Joe remembers what his ambitions were, before. And he accepts that a few years of torture might alter one's perspective a bit – but to what, he can't say. Probably doesn't really want to know, all things considered.

So after the papers are signed, Dr. Crane smiles and shakes Joseph Couric's hand. "Welcome to Arkham, Joker. We'll take very good care of you."

* * *

They check into a hotel, and Eames showers while Arthur makes an anonymous call through a proxy on his laptop.

"They'll keep us updated," he says, stepping beneath the water behind Eames. Arthur slides cold hands over his waist and belly, presses his lips to a line of ink, drags his mouth over a muscular shoulder. "Weekly reports. That sort of thing. And you can call up to twice per day."

"I've really fucked this up," Eames whispers, eyes closed. He has no idea what happened to Joe, and they hadn't actually _seen_ him down there – but it is never a good sign when projections are torturing each other. Because it means the subject's subconscious is willing that to happen. The slow decay of the mind turning in on itself, like how you start to digest your own body once you've begun starving to death.

Athur's arms tighten around him, and he mouths a trail over Eames' neck, slowly moves down his spine. "We all fuck up," he whispers between kisses, smoothing the pads of his fingers over the sensitive inner planes of Eames' hips. "And all you did wrong was trust him to make his own decisions. He's a fucking adult, you told him the risks."

"But I – " Eames starts, but he can't manage anything else as Arthur gently spreads the cheeks of his arse, leans in close and licks his hot tongue tentatively over the puckered skin.

Eames braces his forearms against the wall, water pounding down on his back, spreading his legs as far as the narrow tub will allow as Arthur slides his tongue inside, curls and strokes and extends until Eames is shaking, breathing harsh and heavy sobs, unable to withhold long, low moans – and it's just like Arthur. To make everything better.

"I was thinking," Eames says unevenly, cock throbbing and weeping, tight and so goddamn hard.

"You were thinking?" Arthur repeats, reaching for the lube. Eames takes it from him, unscrews the cap and slicks up his fingers and preps Arthur, holds him open against the tile, stretches him until the leaner man is biting back all manner of soft sounds.

"Right," Eames mutters, getting a firm hold on the handicap bar, "I was thinking you should move in with me. When we get back. To our flat."

Arthur's thighs are hot and hard around his hips, and he arches so beautifully, all strung out on Eames' cock, fitted between the wall and the forger with water spattering his face, his arms loose and desperate around Eames' neck, bucking his hips even as Eames snaps his own up into him.

Anything he means to say is lost in an incoherent rush.

Later, between starchy hotel sheets, Arthur yawning and smelling like citrus with his soft, half-dry hair stringy and mussed over the pillow, Eames presses slow kisses to his jaw, the heady artery beneath his ear. Follows it down his neck.

"Yeah," Arthur says, tilting his head back. They trade slow kisses for an indeterminate amount of time.

"Mmm," Eames moans, and then: "What, love?"

"Yeah," he repeats, this gorgeous, perfect, impossible young man who is his partner, and his lover, and competent as hell and does really ridiculously amazing things with his tongue. "I'll move in with you."

And here's the thing. Eames has really fucked up over the years. He's taken bad jobs, and he's been indebted to some bloody frightening people. He trusts people to do their own jobs just enough that he's had some close calls. When it turns out they can't.

He didn't get Arthur right the first time.

He wasn't there for Mal, when she died.

He allowed circumstances to be such that Joseph Couric may never be the person he meant to be.

But you do your best, with life. And you stack the deck when you can. And even then, you won't win every time, but – Cobb is on the mend, and Ariadne handling herself, and even Robert Fischer seems to have found some happiness. So maybe all the rest is just wash.

And he has Arthur _now_. Arthur who is everything, the key piece, the lodestone. His entire world could disappear around him, but – Arthur is all he really _needs_.

When they leave Gotham, Eames feels lighter than he has in months.


End file.
